#bastard bilbo | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

crystalbeetle888 · 7 months

Text

Voyage into the Unknown Pt.2

Master List

Pt.1 - Pt.2 - Pt.3

The sounds of chanting and singing echo faintly throughout Bilbos’ home, as I drift in and out of sleep. I toss and turn trying to drift off again but to no avail. Groggily, I rise from the soft bed and trot out of the room, heading towards the sounds of chatter. A deep voice sounds from around the corner “- I lost my way, twice. Wouldn't have found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door” Shuffling is heard before Bilbo's voice interrupts “There is no mark on that door, it was painted a week ago!” he exclaims. “There is a mark, I put it there myself” My heart stutters ‘That voice’ I panic ‘He’s the magic chanting guy. What the fuck does he want?” I slink away quietly back to my room, quickly packing my belongings. ‘I can’t stay here’ I think, before creeping back into the hall. Peeking around the corridor and seeing no one there, I make a dash to the next wall. 'Fuck my shoes are by the door' I think to myself not noticing the approaching figure. “Excuse me, Mrs Baggins?”

“Fuck” I whisper startled, spinning around a short young looking man with a bob cut stands behind me “What do you want?” I ask hastily. He looked down shyly “I just wanted to ask if you had any more bread loaves for our jam?” I look at him dumbfounded. “Did you check the kitchen and pantry?” He shakes his head, eyes lighting up before jogging off. ‘What the fuck?’ I turn back around, two more young men stand across the hall staring at me. One of them is blonde, with two funny braids hanging from his moustache. The other, brunette, with wispy bangs framing his face and deep brown eyes. He stands slightly taller than the blonde man, but both equally as ripped looking. ‘Damn’. I peek into the empty entrance hall and spot my shoes ‘No creepy wizard man, so far, so good’, the two men standing there, still spying on me. Quietly sneaking into the hall I sit on the floor and begin to put my shoes on. The two men follow me curiously into the room, “What are you doing?” I turn and shush them “I’m sneaking out” I whisper. “Why are you sneaking out?” the blonde one asks “Are you being held prisoner?” The brunette asks quietly in concern. I scrunch my face in confusion “What? No. I’m avoiding the wizard” They give each other a look “Why?” they both ask in unison. I huff in frustration “Because he's evil, and he kidnapped me”. Finally putting on my boots I stand up just as another short muscular man enters the room. Regalness and power emanate from him. His long flowing raven hair and steely eyes are intense. ‘Double damn’.

“Fili, Kili-” He stops mid sentence upon seeing me “Who’s this?” He asks suspiciously. “Just leaving” I say walking towards the door, “You’re leaving Y/N?” Bilbo and a tall bearded man walk into the room. ‘Oh my god’ “It’s you! You bastard! You kidnapped me!” I yell angrily pointing my finger at the tall man. He gives me a surprised look “I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to” he says nonchalantly. “Oh fuck right off! You’re the one who brought me to this mediaeval shit show” I snap. The old man strokes his beard in thought “Curious” he mutters to himself.

“Right okay, I’m down with this, Thank you so much for the hospitality Bilbo, but I’m leaving” I say walking over to him and shaking his hand before pointing at the old man beside him “And you, stay the hell away from me” I turn around finding the short majestic man blocking the door, looking at the old man behind me. I glare at him before stalking over, “I don’t know what you're scheming, but I am leaving, so move out of my way you weird little man” he raises an eyebrow at me with a smug look, “No” he states, crossing his arms across his broad chest. I let out a angry breath “I you don’t fucking-” A light tap hits the back of my head before a wave of intense sleepiness washes over me. I stumble backwards before falling over, a pair of strong arms catch me and the last thing I see is the brunette man's handsome face before falling unconscious.

The room falls silent as the strange human woman lays asleep in Kilis’ arms. Then Bilbo panics “Oh no, Oh Ms.Y/N” He rushes over. Kili looks over at the wizard “Why did you do that?” He asks, confused. Gandalf hums in thought grasping his magic staff “I just thought my lady could use a rest, to- gather herself” He steps away content with his work. Kili picks the woman up bridal style before looking towards his uncle for guidance. Thorin nods his head towards the other room “Lay her down in front of the fire, let her rest” Kili nods in response and carries the woman into the other room, his brother in tow. Laying her down on the soft pelt carpet the two brothers kneel beside her slumbering form. “She’s got quite the temper on her aye” Fili remarks “She could be part dwarrowdam, especially with her height and all” The woman only stood around half a head taller than Kili, and he was quite tall for a dwarf. Kili scoffs at him “She’s clearly from the race of man, look at her soft face” he says poking her in the cheek “She’s too smooth to be a dwarrow” Fili laughs at his brother, patting him on the shoulder “Well in that case you might not be a dwarf also” He jests. Kili rolls his eyes, slightly hurt by his brother's words “Real funny Fi” he shoves his shoulder back. The two young princes continue to fool around, chatting about the strange woman in front of them, while in the other room Thorin begins questioning Gandalf the Grey. He crosses his arms glaring up at the tall grey clad wizard “Pray tell me Gandalf, why did that woman recognize you?” The older man stutters out a response “Well, I just felt like this quest could benefit from- someone of her skill” Thorin isn’t convinced or impressed at all “And what are her skills? Cursing like a drunkard or dressing indecently?” He growls. Gandalf huffs in frustration, not being able to tell Thorin the entire truth makes convincing him incredibly difficult. “Thorin, you put your trust in me to guide this company. So trust me now, she will be of great use in time” Thorin sighs in defeat “You said we would only need the burglar” he states “What has changed?” Gandalf looks at him grimly “I’ve had a vision, Thorin, one that will end in great loss without her” Thorin nods at the wizard's cryptic message “You cannot share any more can you?” he asks unsatisfied. The wizards face relaxes “No” he smiled mischievously. Thorin shakes his head disappointed with the conclusion of the meeting before wandering off to find Balin, the king's advisor, to inform him of the change of plans.

My head swims as I begin to regain consciousness “How are you feeling Ms?” I open my eyes to the brunette man hovering over my lying form, his dark hair curtaining around my face. “Rat shit, now get out of my face” I grumble, shoving his head away by the face. The blonde man from before laughs at the sight. Sitting up I clutch at my head, feeling sluggish “What the hell happened?” I mutter. “Well, you were threatening our uncle before Gandalf decided to put you to bed” the blonde one responds “Then Gandalf and Thorin argued and now you’re joining the company” The brunette one continues, smiling enthusiastically. I stare at him confused “What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask. The two men look at one another before they both turn to me “You’re coming with us on an adventure!” The brunette one exclaims. I shake my head slowly “No” I say gently. “No?” he asks, confused. “No” I nod “I don’t want to join you” I whisper. He huffs in amusement “I’m afraid you don’t get a say in the matter Ms”. I glared at him before standing up and marching out the room towards the door “We’ll see about that mate”, ‘I won’t be controlled by some weird short ass men’ I think stubbornly to myself. Walking into the entrance hall I find a large, intimidating, bald man seated in front of the door smoking a pipe. The man notices me but doesn’t move. His hardened stare makes me uncomfortable. I've sparred with many strong, intimidating individuals, but this man seems like someone I don’t want to challenge. ‘Scary bastard’ I shake my head exasperated, before snatching my fallen bag off the floor and marching back to my room in defeat. Before I can make it to the safety of my room I am ambushed by the one, I assumed, who's named Thorin “Not trying to escape again are you?” He blocks my path. I roll my eyes at him “Only you” I mock. He grasps my arm as I try to slip past him “Do not mock me woman, you are only here by Gandalf's will, you have yet to impress me” My mouth opens in shock and I huff at the audacity “Get your hands off me before I slap dick off you, you pig” I quip. Thorin's eye widens and his grip loosens fractionally, giving me just enough room to snatch my arm back. I glare at him up and down “Don’t ever grab me again” I turn sharply and head back to my room, slamming the door shut loudly. I let out a shaky breath. Despite all the training, and teaching, nothing prepares you for real confrontations, for the feeling of being threatened. I do some steady, controlled breathing, allowing the anxiety to wash away. Tired, I slip my bag off by the door and crawl back into bed, hoping that this is all just a terrible dream and tomorrow I will wake back in my cabin, back in my slightly less shitty life.

Master List

Pt.1 - Pt.2 - Pt.3

#the company x reader #the company of thorin oakenshield #the hobbit #kili x reader #kili durin #fili and kili

39 notes · View notes

buckleburyblog · 8 months

Text

Sometimes I joke about how I should’ve named my cat Gollum or Smaug when he’s being a little bastard. But then he does something dumb and entertainingly feral and it just reassures me that Bilbo Baggins was in fact the right name to give him.

#yes he is genuinely called bilbo (baggins)#i don’t regret anything #it was going to be loki but i wasn’t allowed so out of spite i named him bilbo #the hobbit #the lord of the rings #lord of the rings #lotr

46 notes · View notes

bitkahuna · 2 months

Text

Cold was the reality that washed over Frodo when he realized what he had done and who he had left with.

His eyes were dry as he stood there on the balcony, looking out over the mountainside. Erebor, he noted, was built as layer upon layer of rings, each covered in plenty of balconies that were impossible to climb due to the jagged mountainsides. The rings consisted of an outer hallway that went along the perimeter, with the various facilities and buildings carved into the interior, as it used to be one solid mountain, hollowed out by decades of work.

“Are you alright?”

Frodo shook his head some before dropping it to rest on the cool stone of the ledge. His breathing was calm, and he was certain he didn’t look like too much of a wreck anymore. “I just … I’m … overheard things that I wasn’t expecting.”

He raised an eyebrow, a nervous smile spreading across his face. “Oh. That bad?”

“Pretty bad.”

“Knowing you speak Sindarin, I can only imagine the horrors.”

-----

“Just once!” Frodo shouted. “You promised me it would only be once!”

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins only grinned. "Oh, lovey, I do, truly do, wish it wasn’t so! But my dear hubby is still so sick, so I simply must attend the social in his stead. After all, your dear cousin Bilbo Baggins needs his family by his side. Those humans may try to take advantage, you know. But, I swear to vote in favor for whatever Bilbo chooses!”

The boy looked sick. “At what cost?”

-----

The older hobbit hesitated, drawing a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“For finding happiness?”

“For leaving you.”

“What?”

Bilbo stared on with a pained expression. “I shouldn’t have left the Shire.”

-----

Frodo continued, shaking his head. “You know, it really killed me. Living with you, and following your rules, and helping you, and all of it. Learning from you for years.” The smile broke into some pathetic stretching of his mouth as tears came to his eyes. “And yet every time I called you my father, you pretended you didn’t fucking hear it.” He took a step back, shaking his head. “You’re a real fuckin bastard for that.”

#bagginshield #the hobbit fanfiction #bilbo x thorin #thorin x bilbo #the hobbit bilbo #the hobbit #bilbo and frodo #bilbo baggins #bilbo #bamf bilbo baggins #frodo baggins #frodo in erebor #the hobbit thorin #king thorin #hobbit #fanfiction #fanfic #ao3fic

14 notes · View notes

ironmandeficiency · 2 years

Text

lovesick fools

pairing: bilbo baggins / reader

word count: 2279

summary: reader and bilbo think that the other harbors a crush on thorin, and the dwarven king is the only one who can smash their heads together hard enough to make them see sense

a/n: this is my january fic for both @oonajaeadira & @writeforfandoms and the year of themed creation challenge i joined! this month’s theme is “requited love but they’re idiots” & the overarching theme for the year is “the year of idiots”

another a/n: reader’s race/gender/appearance are left ambiguous. also jsyk i’m a sucker for idiots to lovers, it’s literally my favorite trope

you learned the hard way to not ask if things could get worse. when you muttered the cursed phrase after narrowly avoiding turning to warg chow, the offense and abject horror on the dwarves’ faces made you think someone had died.

“oh, you’ve done it now!” dwalin grumbled, continuing to complain in angry khuzdul as the company of thorin oakenshield took a moment to breathe after running for their lives yet again.

instead of acknowledging dwalin’s bitching, you slumped against a shady tree, letting your breathing slow down so the rest of your body could catch up. if you had known that the journey to reclaim erebor would include this much running, you would have fought a lot harder to keep the ponies that ran away ages ago.

in the distance, you could see nori and dori tending to their littlest brother, ori giving them both half-hearted swats away from their prodding. bifur and bofur were gathering wood for a fire to cook a quick meal, and you heard thorin delegate the task of hunting to his nephews.

thorin and bilbo were otherwise enthralled in conversation, their attention solely focused on each other. you couldn’t decipher any words or tones from your slouched position, simply noting that it was significantly less hostile than their previous interactions. they were situated so close together you’d be hard pressed to slide one of fili’s daggers between the two without nicking one of them. the only reason this rankled you more than it should have is that a week ago, bilbo wouldn’t have been caught dead sitting so close to the king, damn near snuggling him.

after bilbo risked his life to save thorin from azog, the latter gained a deeper respect for the company’s burglar. it seems that this newfound respect and acceptance made your dear hobbit more bold in showing affection to thorin.

you could almost feel your skin turning green with envy of the dwarf’s position, curling that close to bilbo and sharing hushed whispers with the same intimacy you’ve been craving to receive since before the trolls.

a nagging part of your brain told you that the tight embrace they shared on the carrock was a bit more than a gesture of friendship. the rest of your brain (the parts with common sense) told it to shut up, rationalizing that it was an act of camaraderie in the throes of emotion. but getting your thoughts to silence themselves was as likely as getting gloin to stop bragging about his dear gimli.

the underbrush surrounding you and your tree are ruffled around as you’re joined by balin. he eases himself to the ground beside you without a word, knowing that he’s always welcome company. the smug bastard.

“are ye tryin’ ta finish the defiler’s task for him?” you give the older dwarf a look of confusion, not knowing what he meant. his soft laugh mildly jabs at your nerves, unsure of his meaning and now growing insecure. “if looks could kill, fíli would be king under the mountain before we even reach it.”

of course, the one dwarf that put himself in your presence was the only one who made a habit of not speaking plainly. an eye roll conveys this frustration and he clarifies. “your eyes bear the same ferocity as the drake’s roar and are just as deadly as his fire, and they’re aimed directly at thorin.”

well now you’ve gone and done it, offending balin and openly showing animosity towards thorin. you’d be lucky to remain in the company at this rate once thorin finds out.

you’re sputtering through hasty, fearful apologies. it was your fault for not realizing that your feelings were on display to that magnitude, and now you were trying to cover your ass to keep from being booted from the company in the closest town.

balin, the ever observant dwarf, notices this budding anxiety and rests a calming hand on your shoulder as he continues. “matters of the heart are rather tricky, and while i’m not one to meddle in the lives of others, i can give some sound advice if asked.”

balin not meddling? that’s a pile of shit if you’ve ever heard one. next to nori and bofur, the eldest son of fundin was the biggest meddler this side of the misty mountains. you half expected there to be a gossiper’s guild established once the mountain was restored.

“then tell me, master dwarf, what is your advice?” you didn’t mean to snap at him so, but your temper flared when bilbo and thorin seemed to scoot even closer to each other than they already were. once again, you apologize for your rashness.

he hummed in thought, shooing your hand away gently with a knowing smile that had a frightening resemblance to gandalf’s. “tell him how you feel, no matter how grim the current situation seems to be. even if his answer is not what you wish, he will not let it interfere with the quest or your role in it.”

that made sense… almost.

not even the most ardent love such as yours would sway the stalwart bilbo baggins from his commitment to the company. when he gives his word, it’s guaranteed to be kept. why would admitting your feelings to bilbo even hypothetically derail either of you from the objective? he didn’t have a personal stake in the quest outside of his promise, only the kindness of his heart and tookish sense of adventure kept him on the road to erebor. kept him with you.

rationally, the only person who had a true say in who stayed or left the company was thorin. he was the exiled prince, the future king, the leader of this quest. his word was law; he could order you to walk on your hands and eat with your feet the rest of the journey and you’d be obligated to comply.

…wait a minute, did balin think you harbored affection for thorin?

you didn’t know what was worse, balin believing the falsehood or knowing where your heart truly lies. only time would tell.

“simply put, i haven’t the slightest idea what to do!”

bilbo’s been lamenting on and on about you to thorin for nearly thirty minutes. didn’t even ask to sit next to him by the fire, just plopped himself down, scooted in close, and began his woeful soliloquy.

while thorin respects the hobbit and appreciates his friendship, he’s just about had it. each time you and bilbo catch each other’s eyes, every soft word you exchange, it gets repeated back to him in a level of detail only found in the romance novels dwalin pretends to loathe.

to thorin, the solution to bilbo’s problem is simple: he needs to give you a gift worthy of your hand while stating his intentions towards you. maybe a little bit of affection while he was at it. he didn’t understand the nuance that bilbo kept applying to courting you, especially since you would accept anything given to you by the genteel hobbit.

back in rivendell, he caught you gazing at bilbo with gentle longing and pure intentions. despite every feeble attempt made to hide your feelings from the dwarf king, he called you on them far too quick for your liking and swore to keep your secret.

shortly after, bilbo asked him for advice on how to court you. the advice was given with a smile, hoping that it would be taken eagerly and no one else would have to deal with the lovesick fools dancing around each other.

he hoped in vain because here bilbo was, asking the same questions as if thorin would miraculously give a different answer.

thorin groans, pinching the bridge of his nose in resigned exasperation. this was almost worse than the trolls. “i’ve already given you my thoughts on the matter, bilbo. whether you use that information to your advantage is solely up to you.”

bilbo’s eyes nearly popped from his skull. he was quick to begin hushing the dwarf (the nerve!) and placing himself even further into thorin’s personal space. “i beg of you, thorin, keep your voice down!”

a handful of the others looked on, wondering why bilbo exclaimed so loud when thorin was simply talking.

“i’ll keep my voice down when you tell me something that not every man here already knows,” thorin scoffed at the hobbit, almost talking louder out of spite. “quite frankly, i have half a mind to take care of this problem myself.”

f and k return from hunting, both of them laden with plenty of meat and a few foraged bits and come upon the edge of chaos. their uncle and their burglar are locked in a staring contest fueled by frustration and fear. barring your fiery glare towards the two, the others are suspended in anticipation, eyes flitting back and forth between their king and their burglar.

neither of them can find it in themselves to be ashamed of the way they flinch when you storm away from your tree and towards thorin. you’re right scary when your features are pulled into a scowl that rivals the pale orc.

“what did we just walk into, fee?”

“i believe the proper term for this situation is ‘shitshow’, brother.”

you push your way between thorin and bilbo and plant your feet firmly, your eyes nearly setting thorin on fire with the same intensity balin noted earlier. “you don’t have to take care of a damned thing, your majesty.” everyone flinches at the malice laced into the honorific. none of them ever heard you speak with such vitriol in your voice and it was rather jarring.

“i know what you and bilbo have been scheming about, so save your breath.” bilbo’s pained gasp almost made you turn around and hug your dearest friend until he was laughing again. but you were furious and determined, a lethal combination when targeted at a specific someone and you couldn’t stop now.

thorin’s confusion and frustration was palpable. “what could you possibly be referring to? there’s been no scheming done by anyone here!”

“don’t take me for a fool, oakenshield! your intentions with bilbo are clear!”

“and just what might those be?”

you growl in fury as you lay the accusation bare. “you intend to court him, make him consort of erebor! even after everything i told you!” tears are fighting to escape but you push them back. you can’t cry yet, not before you make your feelings clear. “i confided in you, you were my friend! how dare you!” with every word a finger is harshly jabbed into his chest.

every other dwarf was shouting over another, trying to make heads or tails of your words. the anticipation gave way to confusion, no one knowing where to start. thorin and bilbo as king and consort? but what about your feelings for thorin? wait, doesn’t bilbo have feelings for you? where was thorin’s heart in all this?

you had tear tracks on your face despite your valiant efforts to keep them at bay. bilbo had a hand pressed to his mouth as he sat himself back on the ground, struggling to keep himself together. thorin’s company was going back and forth with no end to the bickering in sight.

thorin was pissed.

“enough!”

near complete silence followed thorin’s shout, broken only by the occasional sniffles of you and bilbo.

thorin turned to face you, resting a hand on your shoulder and hoping you wouldn’t shrug it off. “i am sorry for leading you to believe i would ever betray your trust in such a fashion.” his eyes met bilbo’s for a moment. when the hobbit nodded solemnly, thorin continued. “bilbo’s been seeking my advice for a while now on how to go about courting you. unfortunately for everyone, the lovesick fool hasn’t done anything to follow said advice.”

“i only see you as a friend, both of you. you’re important members of this company and have grown into admirable companions.” thorin offers a hand to bilbo, encouraging him to stand and face you. “now for the sake of my sanity, please profess your love for each other so we don’t have to deal with your constant yearning anymore!” with that, thorin walks away and shoos the others off to give you both space.

your eyes meet bilbo’s. every negative feeling is now replaced with hope, your heart mending itself just as quick as it broke. the pad of his thumb gently brushes away the fresh tears that were about to fall, his smile soft and eyes kind. “i’m afraid that the oaf of a king is right, i do love you. i love you most ardently, my dear. and i apologize that i didn’t have the courage to tell you sooner.”

“there’s nothing to forgive,” your head leans gently into his hand, enjoying the affection that you’ve been craving for so long. “i love you too, bilbo, so much.” you both leaned in and stole a tender kiss, finally able to indulge the way you deserved.

in the not-so-distant distance, the others were being their usual loud selves trying to watch you without letting you catch them. they weren’t doing that well of a job. you hear slightly muffled whoops and coin bags jingling as they’re swapped between the rest of the company. most of them were going to thorin despite the fireless grunts about cheating.

“the gall of those dwarves! they placed bets on us!” bilbo’s offended huff made you laugh. your hobbit admired the way your eyes scrunched, surprising even himself with the way he snags another kiss from your smiling lips. the courage of hobbits, indeed.

#year of idiots #year of themed creation #bilbo baggins x reader #the hobbit reader insert #the hobbit fanfiction #bilbo baggins #bilbo baggins imagine #the hobbit fanfic #the hobbit trilogy #bilbo baggins reader insert

165 notes · View notes

dimdiamond · 5 months

Note

AND Thorin ✨

AND THORIN YOU'LL RECEIVE

Look guys, my honest opinion is that Thorin doesn't get bullied enough by fans. Yeah yeah wandering prince carrying all the responsibility and the trauma of losing his family and home and yeah he's a kitty BUT HE'S A BASTARD TOO OK? He's a sarcastic bitch who will gossip you with Dwalin like schoolgirls at the back of the classroom. He keeps diary and sometimes puts hearts instead of dots. He would go to the mayor and spit on his face. Just read a bit of the book, guys, I know it's Bilbo's narration but he's a bastard too and bastards recognize each other and kiss on the mouth. However I want him to go retire in peace. Canon isn't real.

#fans spoil him and babify him and good for you guys but i need you to see him in all his bastard glory #don't be afraid of making him seem like the bad guy because he already seems like that in his story and he makes mistakes #and the fact he recognizes his mistakes it's his appeal #AND OF COURSE I'M NOT ANTI I LOVE THIS GUY #i just want characterization of him that his fault isn't he cares too much no i want his real faults because that make him interesting #anyway thank you so much again #thorin oakenshield #the hobbit

11 notes · View notes

obsidiancreates · 10 months

Text

The Second Chance Of The Third Age (Part 2)

“Right, let's get these lined up,” Bilbo says as he helps cram the chairs around the table. “Got so carried away with the food I forgot about this. Thorin, can I sit beside-”

Thorin sits and pats a chair that's already next to his, and Bilbo smiles and takes the seat. Thorin reaches over and clasps Bilbo’s hand tightly in his own, and Bilbo turns his hand over to hold it back.

“I think we should start by making sure everyone's caught up,” Bimbo says as Gandalf, last of all, settles into a chair a bit to the side. The wizard in question raises his eyebrows.

“I don't believe that to be wise, Bilbo-”

“Oh, but I do. We're not dancing around the topic, Gandalf, not when things are as serious as they are.”

“That's an understatement,” Gloin grumbles, well aware of exactly what Bilbo was thinking of. “That should go first, I think.”

“Right. Yes. Six of you… never knew.” Bilbo clears his throat, clearly withholding a few tears. “Well, to keep it short, in about seventy or so years Sauron will return.”

Thorin stiffens, and Fili and Kili gape. Oin turns to Dwalin with wide eyes, and he doesn't even need to ask if he'd heard right for Dwalin to nod. Balin presses his hands to his mouth, muffling a low, mournful sound, and Ori chokes on the ale he'd been drinking.

“What's more, I uh… may have discovered, when he did, that I ah… picked up his One Ring in the goblin tunnels. And I'd used that ring on our adventure many times, as well as to, ahem, to avoid unwanted guests and relatives, later on.” His voice is tight, and his expression much the same. An old, old guilt rests behind it all.

For a moment there’s nothing but silence and stares, horrified stares. All but those returned from early death and Gandalf knew that he'd had The Ring, of course, but hearing he used something so terrible so often and on such casual uses as avoiding company…

“It did get destroyed,” Bilbo quickly assures, looking at Gandalf. “And I did give it up. My nephew- well, technically cousin, but we'd always been more like nephew and uncle than cousins- took it to Mordor and destroyed it. You were involved in that too, of course.”

Gandalf eyes Bilbo quizzically. “You gave it up? By your own will?”

“And a push, from um, from you,” Bilbo admits. “But yes, I left it behind when I was eleventy-one and traveled to- well, I intended The Lonely Mountain, but I only got as far as Rivendell before age caught up.”

“My son helped in the quest,” Gloin chimes in, eyes shining with pride. “And got that miserable wood elf prince wrapped around his finger in the process! ‘Goblin Mutant’ indeed, ha! The right bastard couldn’t stand to be parted with my boy after they returned!”

Bilbo makes a sort of hum-whine noise. “Not quite how that went. Granted, Legolas smuggled Gimli into Valinor, but I wouldn't say he was wra-”

“Well I do. Imagine Thranduil's face! His own son, bringing a Dwarf of Erebor to their cherished lands! Ha!”

There's a cheer with the much lighter, happier news, and a quick round of drinking in honor of Gimli, Elf-Charmer.

Gandalf looks near ill.

“Wait.” Fili looks around the table. “Bilbo said six of us didn't make it.”

Balin, Oin, and Ori raise their hands- Ori somewhat hesitantly. Dori and Nori have been glued to his side the entire time, and now they both somehow manage to move even closer to him, like an overfilled sandwich crushed in a desperate grip.

“In Khazad-dûm.” Balin's voice shakes, eyes brimming with tears. “I… I lead a party to try and reclaim it. I can never beg enough for your forgiveness-”

“Don’ you dare to start, then,” Oin interrupts. “Ori and I knew what we signed up for.”

Ori has both of his arms around his older brothers, all three crying quietly. In his own last moments, as he scratched out a recounting of their doom, Ori’s last thoughts had been that he hoped his brothers would be alright without him.

“Balin.” Thorin's voice cracked. “Why?”

Balin shakes his head, drawing a shuddering breath. “I don't know. Grief, maybe. Hubris, after we reclaimed Erebor. It's hard to remember why I felt it so important after all it took from us.”

“... If-if it helps,” Bilbo says, “Gimli was able to pass through with his company. He saw the mines of mithril, the great halls- Frodo said it was a wonder, for all the perils it brought them, and… all the grief.”

Balin is quiet for a moment, and then nods. “At least one Dwarf lived to see it, I suppose. But I hope he won't pass through it again in this life.”

“As if I'd let him,” Gloin says, mostly reassuring his brother. Oin nods thankfully.

“But that’s only three, four counting me.” Fili’s eyes travel the table, but they never land on the remainders- not until Kili puts his hand on his brother’s shoulder, and then looks to their uncle as well. Fili looks between them, paling. “No.”

“It won’t happen again.” Kili grips his brother’s shoulder tightly. “We’ll stick together, no matter what.”

“And with luck, kill Azog long before The Battle. I’m sure I couldn’t convince either of you to return home even I tried-”

“Not a chance of it,” the two princes say in unison. Forgiveness is unspoken but present, clear in the loyalty still shining in their eyes- and for now, in this moment of joyous reunion and somber planning, it keeps the guilt of the king at bay.

“Now uh, onto the business of The Ring. I'll have to find it again, to destroy it, of course.” Bilbo swallows thickly at the thought, so tantalizing yet so repulsive. He hates it, and loves it, in near equal measures- but he loves Frodo far more. “Which does mean we'll have to face the goblins again at the very least.”

It seems to jar the table, going back to the topic of travesty dealt across all of Middle-Earth and not just within their own Company.

“Can't you just leave it?” Kili looks to Gandalf. “Sauron can't conquer Middle-Earth without it, can he?”

“I would doubt it…” Gandalf looks skeptically at Bilbo. “But I think our hobbit has more to share.”

“Well, he did have help.” Bilbo scowls. “Saruman. Don't trust him, Gandalf. If I ever see himself I'll-” Bilbo puffs out a breath, so teeming with rage at the thought of the wicked wizard, of being face-to-face with someone so remorseless in their evil-!

“Saruman wouldn't aid Sauron,” Gandalf whispers, quickly and with no small amount of panic. “Not without a terrible plague on his mind!”

“Plague on his-! He made armies of tens of thousands and sent them to slaughter kingdoms! He sent out goblin-orc hybrids to capture my nephew! He tried to kill you and the rest of Frodo's Fellowship in an avalanche! Plague, ha! A common cold might be enough to turn him.”

“These are not accusations you can make lightly, Bilbo Baggins!”

“Gimli told me the same!” Gloin slams his fist onto the table. “He witnessed it! Fought in Helm's Deep alongside the king of Rohan, king of Gondor, even the elf! They all said the same!”

Gandalf looks near ill. “These are grave, grave tidings. How do we know you fourteen haven't been sent back by the very power your descendants sought to destroy? Only one power in this world has been known to raise the dead.”

“I have no intentions of aiding this filth,” Thorin spits. “If Sauron sent us back for some dark purpose, he’ll barely live to regret his decision.” He turns to Bilbo. “The Ring, what had it done to you? The old tales say it had a will of it's own.”

“It did worse to Frodo. But it did… have a hold, on me. From the moment I picked it up, it held enough sway to make me hide it from you all. I won't be able to take it to Mordor alone, I-I fear it would claim me more easily than it did Frodo.”

“I would go with you.” Thorin presses his forehead to Bilbo’s. “We all would, I'm sure of it.”

Resounding agreements fill the smial. All but Gandalf, who still looks so shaken by such news that he hardly seems to be focusing on the party in front of him.

“But after Erebor,” Bilbo says firmly once it quiets down. “The Battle thinned out Sauron's armies, it'll be an easier journey. Possibly. And-and with Smaug dead, Sauron will have a major blow to his plans, because they're in league, Smaug told me so the last time around. I didn't understand it at the time but, they are.”

“And what of my part in this?” Gandalf's voice is somber. “What path must I take?”

“Let me remember- you only told me this once in Valinor, and I was very old. … I believe you went to Dol Guldur, after a meeting with the White Council in Rivendell and after taking us to Mirkwood. I think- and I hope my memory is right- you said you were saved by Lady Galadriel.”

“Who my Gimli also charmed,” Gloin couldn't help but add. “She gave him three of her hairs! He asked for one, and she gave him three! Silver-tongued like no other. We should put him on your Council, Thorin.”

“In due time, Gloin. Bilbo, The Ring-”

“Will probably get a strong hold of me again. Even knowing what it was, I-I never, truly, rid myself of it's influence, neither did Frodo. Even now, I feel empty without it. But it has to be done, Thorin. I just ask you all watch me, and make sure I don't… don't make off with it.”

“It's a promise.” Thorin whispers the words almost reverently.

“... Are you two going to be together this time, then?” Dwalin asks suddenly, with all the subtlety of his usual endeavors. Bilbo’s mouth drops open and he looks at Thorin, who-

Well, who shares none of the shock, actually. Instead he has a soft smile. Bilbo’s mouth snaps shut, though his eyes remain wide, and he gives a quick nod. Thorin gives him a much less quick, reverently lingering kiss on the forehead, and coins are tossed about the table- an old, old bet, that had never seen a true conclusion, now finally fulfilled. Gandalf rubs his forehead. “One more surprise from this party and I shall go through the entire Shire’s worth of Old Toby before our journey even begins.”

#the hobbit #fanfic #my attempts at fanfic #bagginshield #bilbo baggins #thorin's company #the company of thorin oakenshield

27 notes · View notes

kissunderthemountain · 5 months

Text

Comprehend, the kind of love of which I speak

In which no small act of observation goes wasted, Thorin yearns like he has no other purpose, and Bilbo's act of kindness saves the line of Durin.

It all began in Mirkwood, really. Well, if Bilbo was being honest with himself - and really, he should’ve been honest with himself much sooner, as what good was a burglar who couldn’t see what was right under his nose - there had been signs much sooner, as early as the Carrock if not before even then, but, well…

The real, notable start had been in Thranduil’s dungeons.

When, in between scrambling for dark corners, foraging for what scraps he could find, and trying to get a sense of exactly how to get them all out of this madness, Bilbo had settled in front of Thorin’s cell. Just a breather. He thought to himself, slinking to the ground in a pathetic slouch. Just a moment to catch my breath, and then…

And then what? That was the issue, really. Weeks spent in this shadowed version of the world, not speaking - fearing breathing, for crying out loud, too afraid to make a sound. This underground fortress of a palace was a maze, cold and unfeeling as its king, filled with precipices around every wrong turn. Not to mention the guards. Really, Bilbo was lucky that none were within throwing distance of him right now - else he wouldn’t take this chance, magic ring or not. He hoped, distantly, that Erebor was more welcoming than these halls. At this point he would take practically anything, but hearing how the dwarrow had spoken of their home had given Bilbo some kind of peace, and some other feeling he couldn’t quite place. All that would be for naught, however, if he couldn’t get them out of this blasted dungeon!

Dropping his shoulders in frustration, Bilbo thumped his head against the bars. At the sound, Thorin, who previously seemed to have been dozing in a sort of half-sleep, jolted awake. Muddled in confusion he first gazed blankly out of the opening and, finding nothing, came to sit in front of the bars in a position that unconsciously mirrored Bilbo’s.

Bilbo froze, and moved to shuffle back, only remembering after a moment that-

Ah. Of course. He can’t see you, you fool, there’s no need to alert him with more scuffling sounds.

Guilt shot through Bilbo, smoother than an arrow. Here Thorin was, finally getting some rest, and Bilbo just had to go and- and muck it all up!

Yet as Bilbo looked closer, Thorin didn’t seem all that awake. His eyelids drooped, then fluttered, then blinked firmly as Thorin forced them open again, watching for an unseen danger. Those eyes, though dulled and darkened by the dimness of these caves, were still blue as the Shire-water in spring. Blue as the morning glories that crept up persistently around Bag End, and no less resilient than those pesky vines.

He watched as Thorin’s eyes closed once again, not more than a breath away.

Yavanna, Bilbo was close enough to count his eyelashes! Bilbo thought to himself with a start, and so his gaze wandered downward. To check for injury, he told himself. To reassure himself that, though this situation was horrid in and of itself, Thorin was doing alright.

Scrapes and bruises and dazed looks aside, there was nothing to be found, and for that Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief. Just one - but to his horror, he saw Thorin’s nostrils flare. He froze as Thorin inhaled fully, paused, and lifted his head a bit higher, eyes searching for something. Someone? Bilbo didn’t dare hope it was him, and anyway, he was far more focused on a smaller detail - that Thorin’s braids were undone, with no beads to fasten them in place.

Those tree-shagging bastards! Those- those filthy, rotten leaf lovers -

He had never held contempt for elves, not really (as someone had to keep a level head between Gloin’s disdain and whatever Kili was doing), and though he had never learned the exact significance of dwarven braids, anyone with eyes could see the level of disrespect it took to remove them. And - having been by the rest of The Company’s cells on brief occasions - Bilbo noticed now that it seemed only Thorin’s had been removed. And so Bilbo hatched a plan. Finally the wheels of his mind were turning, set into motion by the sight of the King - he didn’t dare say his King - in such a state.

Of course, there was the plan that got them out of there. Quite well thought out, if one were to brush past the lack of a barrel for Bilbo himself and the surprise Orc party.

But the other plan - his own secret, private project, was another matter. It was a matter of a whittle (in Bilbo’s case, a small Elvish knife swiped off a table when no-one cared enough to look), and a scrapped piece of wood no bigger than his thumb.

There was no thought in Bilbo’s head about propriety when he had been stealing for his life. In a way, this was much the same, he reasoned with himself, in that it was a necessary gesture that Bilbo had the time and energy to spare to do when no one else did. When there were bigger issues to worry about - Kili’s leg, for one, or making it into Laketown, or of course the Lonely Mountain itself.

No, this was something he would do, for he had noticed something, and now couldn’t let it go.

Thorin lay alone. In Laketown, in a bed far too tall for his size, he lay still, hands folded on his chest mimicking a body and not a person, and thought.

Unbidden, his gaze wandered to Bilbo. When he looked at Bilbo, really let himself look (and this night he did, as there was no telling what tomorrow and the Lonely Mountain would bring), he thought not of gold, not of the throne awaiting him in the depths of that mountain, not of his home, but of far more lonesome things.

Of how the eye was Mahal’s loneliest creation, the whole world passing through it and yet holding nothing. Of how there was another eye, just like it, an inch away, just as hungry. Just as empty.

He thought of the firelight shining in Bilbo’s eyes and remembered nights around a campfire. Remembered the gentle crackling of the flame and nonexistent sunlight found in the hobbit’s hair, remembered warmth. How, after borrowing Thorin’s furs, and rolling this and that way during the night, there had been a patch of ground heated gently by a body - Bilbo’s body - all night long. How he, guilty in every touch, had reached for that earth, desperately seeking a remnant of that heat, that touch, that embrace they had shared on the Carrock. How he had laid there until the only heat left was his own, and the ground grew cold and unforgiving beneath him, and the sun had risen. And then they had to leave.

In Mirkwood, in weeks trapped beneath the forest, it felt as if Thorin had been given endless time to think. Yet now, on the precipice of his home, of his destiny, there was no time at all.

What time he did have was spent on Bilbo. Was spent wishing, wondering, if there was something more. If like that other eye, Bilbo, too, felt this yawning chasm within him, a hollowed-out sort of feeling that Thorin sensed couldn’t be filled.

Oh, it came close sometimes, of course, seeing his sister-sons laugh, seeing hope for the first time in a long time within his people, within his Company, but it wouldn’t be satiated by anything less than a lifetime of… well… Thorin let his head drop back to the pillow, heavy with an equal mixture of desire and regret. He would’ve been happy with remaining by Bilbo’s side, he mused to himself, could’ve felt satisfied drinking in that radiance and living for it alone. But now, with his future, his destiny, his people, hanging by a thread, there was nothing to be done. He would live and die by this yearning.

Going lax, Thorin heard footsteps. Barely heard them, as quiet as the hobbit moved across even creaky wooden floors, but heard them all the same. He did not will his eyes to open, only shifted his body over slightly to one side. An opening. An offering, really. One he didn’t dare hope would be noticed or… accepted.

“Thorin?” Bilbo asked, voice soft as anything. When moments passed and no response came, Thorin felt a dip in the mattress. An additional weight on his bed. This made his eyes open finally, and when they did, he watched as Bilbo frowned slightly and moved to get up.

Out of instinct, Thorin found himself latching onto Bilbo’s wrist with a tenderness that frightened him and that only made Bilbo frown more. But it also made Bilbo settle back down on the bed and lean over Thorin, so he took the successes as they came, even when they came with a lecture.

“Are you feeling alright? You haven’t gone and gotten yourself sick, have you? I’ll go get Oin if I have to, I know you wouldn’t want to slow anything down but we cannot have you-”

“Bilbo.” Thorin interrupted when Bilbo’s hand had already landed on his forehead, feeling for a rise in temperature that wasn’t there. He raised his eyebrows, and Bilbo’s hand drew back at the motion. “I’m alright. But thank you. Your concern is…” Here he paused, swallowed, throat dry as anything. “Touching.”

Touching. All that time and all he could come up with was touching. Forget being a king, hopefully his future would end here and now through being swallowed up by the floor.

Bilbo’s eyebrows furrowed. Mahal, that expression. “If you say so, but if there’s anything I can do…” His words hung in the air and for a second Thorin felt suffocated. Anything. Yes. If I could request anything of you I wouldn’t ask for much at all. Just forever. Forever with me. Intertwined. Something of that pain must have shown through in his expression because between that moment and the next, Bilbo’s fingers were smoothing his hair away from his temple in feather-light strokes.

“It’ll be okay, you know.” He continued, and it was so intimate that Thorin was torn between cringing away from it (because it was too much, like a campfire on an already scorching summer night) and throwing himself into it, helpless, a moth drawn to a flame. Instead, he settled somewhere in the middle, somewhere in resting his eyes on Bilbo’s face and resting his head for Bilbo’s hand.

“I do know.” Thorin said, his voice the rumble of distant thunder and his tone something so weary that Bilbo sighed and shook his head.

Fingertips lingering somewhere just above Thorin’s ears, Bilbo tapped lightly. “You might know, but you certainly don’t believe in it.” Saying this, Bilbo’s nose scrunched. “I don’t know what to tell you to make you believe. That’s more of Gandalf’s thing, I think.”

Thorin smiled, feeling small in the stillness of the night. “Our resident burglar, lost for words? Wasn’t sure I’d ever see the day.”

“Ah, well, don’t go getting used to it. Doesn’t happen often, that.”

The both of them smiled, then, and Thorin felt something well up in his chest. He fought back the urge to press a hand there and check it wasn’t physical - for he knew it couldn’t have been something as simple as blood or sweat, but an emotion he still couldn’t place beyond want.

Bilbo deserved more than want.

Feeling Bilbo drawing away, Thorin spoke once again in a desperate attempt - with that same reaction as when he had latched on to Bilbo’s hand. “I fear…” He cast his eyes down, suddenly far too ashamed to look Bilbo in the eye. “This bed feels too empty for me to sleep well tonight.” “I understand.” Bilbo said, to his surprise, forcing that hope - the one that whispered that he wasn’t quite as alone as he felt - to surface again. “After all, after months of only sleeping in shifts around a fire, I would feel the same.” Thorin hesitated. “Do you… feel the same?” Bilbo met his gaze, then. He had the slightest curl of amusement to his lip. “Are you asking me to share your bed, oh King Under the Mountain?”

Mahal have mercy. Strike me down now.

“Well, Master Baggins,” Thorin cleared his throat, breaking that eye contact yet again to stare at a wooden beam across the room. “I would understand if it would not be considered proper by your people, but considering, well, your previous statement, I would think…” And there, sparing him from further embarrassment was Bilbo, sliding under the cover and making room for himself. Barely thinking about it, barely thinking at all, really, Thorin shifted over to make space, and Bilbo gave a happy hum.

“You would be right - in that it isn’t considered properly done - but I would consider these extenuating circumstances. And, to be frank, it’s awfully hard to resist when you dwarves give off more heat than the earth in Wedmath.” His eyes crinkled with a kindness Thorin hadn’t felt in ages and Thorin fought to reconcile the idea of the Hobbit who’s home he’d invaded months ago with this one.

In a beat, Bilbo took on a grave sincerity (the same he had shown repeatedly - after escaping the Misty Mountains, or when vouching for Thorin just a day or so prior) and shifted to face Thorin.

Helpless, Thorin held still, and waited.

“You’re my dearest friend, Thorin.” Bilbo said, quietly, like it was a secret between the two of them. “And I’d do anything for a friend.”

“Even face down a dragon?” Thorin choked out before having thought about it, caught in the look in Bilbo’s green eyes (Emerald, his mind whispered, Emerald, moissanite, tourmaline) and the warmth and weight of his body beside him.

Those green eyes twinkled. “Especially that.” He smiled, like it wasn’t going to be his doom, like his life wouldn’t end in fire and ash. “So really,” Bilbo continued (cutting off Thorin’s spiraling thoughts rather rudely), “This isn’t much at all.”

Thorin felt that same feeling creeping up, stuck in his throat.

You don’t understand. There is nothing I wouldn’t give. My kingdom, my riches, my blood. In my deepest heart of hearts, I wish we never would’ve come. That you could have stayed in the Shire, in Bag End, never knowing what it is like to face a violent death and stand tall.And yet, then we wouldn’t have met.I thank Mahal that we are given this night. That I am given this night to lay beside you as your friend. If you name me your dearest friend, then your dearest friend I shall be.

He didn’t speak a word. He just breathed out, long and placidly, and that seemed to say enough.

A heavy weight sat in Bilbo’s chest, made to match the heavy weight in his jacket.

He had woken the dragon. His actions had directly killed many in Laketown - people who had already been suffering, starving at the hands of their Master. People he and Thorin and the rest of The Company had given hope to for the first time in a long time.

And yet in the face of all of this, Thorin felt nothing. He could tell Thorin had changed. He had changed the very moment they had set foot in this wretched mountain.

Erebor, though once a splendid kingdom of wealth and warmth and home for so many, had become a hollowed out shell of its past.

Between the way Thorin prowled (and really, there was no other word for it, considering the tense set of his shoulders beneath that gaudy fur coat and the distant look in his eyes) and the way the mountain bled coldness and stunk of death like an infected wound, it was a wonder Bilbo found air comfortable enough to breathe.

When he wasn’t sorting through gold for the very item he already held or avoiding the feverish gaze of The King Under the Mountain (for could that dwarf really be called Thorin Oakenshield anymore?) Bilbo sought comfort in one small object.

Palming it, Bilbo considered the details. There wasn’t any work left to do on it, really, unless he wished to risk the integrity and carve deeper than he ought to. His deft fingers had worked carefully away at it for months, angling a small knife (that he swapped out rather cleverly at Laketown, lest anyone harp on him about carrying yet another blade of Elvish make) just so and now, with countless sections of downtime spent, he was left with this.

One small wooden bead sat in his hand. The size and shape was close to that of Thorin’s original beads, or as close as Bilbo had remembered (as Bilbo knew little about hair fastening in this fashion and didn’t want to risk making something that couldn’t work well at all), but that was where the similarities ended.

Despite having studied what dwarven runes and designs he’d seen intently, Bilbo decided to stick with what he knew best, and made it personal. After all, especially now with Thorin’s… condition, there was no guarantee it would ever be worn. So, he took comfort in it, and whittled the only way he knew how.

The detail that had taken the most time (as small as it was), were small oak leaves. Three spanned the width of the bead, so no matter which way it was twisted one would always show. A symbol of the strength and resilience of a king, forever embedded in this little bead, personally handcrafted by Bilbo. A bead that would likely never see the light of day, if Bilbo allowed himself to face the stark reality laying before him for more than a moment to admit it.

Holding it up to what little light reflected in these stone halls, he peered at it, admiring his handiwork for once. Only a few of his previous skills had carried over to this quest and, somehow, he was glad this was one of them.

Then there was a sound, nothing so undignified as a scuffle but scraping, like the drag of claws (Smaug’s claws, he thought to himself, with a shudder) on the rock’s surface, and Bilbo was startled enough to drop the bead back into his palm with one sudden move.

Thorin stood in front of him, tall and regal and unreachable beneath his layers of garish golden metal and furs. “What,” he growled, every bit as animalistic as Bilbo had feared. “Is that.”

He made no clarification but his eyes (that same river blue gone cold and distant like that wretched winter the Brandywine had frozen over) fixed on Bilbo’s hands, clenched tight around his last shred of hope and comfort in this dark and desolate place.

“It’s nothing.” “Show me.” Thorin demanded, and with this King Under the Mountain towering over him, Bilbo had nothing to do but to obey.

His fingers (which were not trembling, no matter what anyone thought) unclasped and he offered, palm up, the bead. Thorin’s bead, really.

At once, there was a small clarity in Thorin’s eyes, in his face. A touch of guilt, maybe, for such a bold confrontation, and something else.

“A wooden bead,” he mused, and his voice, though rough with harsh use, was the gentlest it had been since that night in Laketown, when he’d confided in Bilbo, and they had shared a bed for crying out loud. “Wherever did you pick this up?” “I, ah, made it. Actually. Myself. Took quite a bit of time.” Hearing this, Thorin’s hand brushed the underside of Bilbo’s, guiding it up so he could look closer. Nearly flinching, Bilbo just held still, and breathed as Thorin examined his work. Thorin sounded tender and Yavanna, almost fond, as he spoke.

“You made this?”

Latching on to this fragment of humanity he’d found, Bilbo continued with reckless abandon, throwing any sense of secrecy to the wind.

“Yes, just in my downtime, over the last few months. Always had a bit of a knack for whittling, one of the few crafts I’ve gotten comfortable enough with so far. Made it as a gift, actually, I was going to give it to someone- ah- sometime-” “You’re going to give it to someone?”

In that very moment, it seemed as if Thorin had disappeared in the complete opposite direction.

Where there had been rivers warm in spring or frozen over in the dead of winter was a stormy sea Bilbo had never been privy to witness. That tender touch had become a claw, holding a level of fury he had yet to see in Thorin (even after getting himself flung off a cliff!), and yet, when Bilbo dared to drag his gaze to meet Thorin’s, there was a level of devastating desolation spreading on his face that Bilbo just had to do something, anything to get a drop of that Thorin (his Thorin) back.

“It’s yours,” he said, prying Thorin’s hand off and open enough to let the bead tumble into his tensed fingers. “I made it for you. Please. Take it, Thorin, it’s a gift for you.”

Bilbo watched Thorin’s eyes, cautious. He watched as that same lust, that gold sickness clouded them for but a brief moment, and then startlingly, he watched as they cleared. As how Thorin, gazing at the bead anew with a sudden clarity in his eyes, whispered in a halting voice, “For me?”, and how his other hand slowly reached to rub at some ache in his chest. The touch reminded him of the cloak he was wearing, and, with a warring flicker of disgust and avarice, he cast it to the ground and closed his eyes completely. Bilbo didn’t miss Thorin’s eyelashes going wet, nor how he seemed to weaken at the knees.

It took minutes before either spoke, standing there, Thorin weathering his storm and Bilbo helplessly caught in the tide, watching, waiting, until Thorin gained breath enough to speak.

“Bilbo… Mahal , what have I done? This mountain, this gold, this- this blasted crown … I have succumbed to the very same madness of my forefathers.”

“Thorin-” Bilbo stilled as Thorin wrenched the crown from his head and tossed it to the floor, a loud clatter echoing in the barren space. “Thorin, do not stand in front of me and say you have succumbed when I can see you looking at me like a new dwarf. You are not your grandfather and you will not yield while I draw breath.”

In his tirade Bilbo had cleared the space between them and stood almost chest to chest with Thorin.

“Your company needs you. I need you,” and at this, Thorin gave some strange shudder, shaking his head with his eyes still closed. “Thorin Oakenshield, the same dwarf who threw himself off a cliff's edge to save a lowly burglar.”

There he paused, and waited, barely blinking with the intensity of his stare.

A hair's breadth away from him, Thorin drew in a trembling breath, and opened his eyes. “If,” He began, voice unsteady, then cleared his throat. “If that is truly all you think you are, all of us have failed.” And in that one sentence, Bilbo relaxed more than he had in days.

Though Thorin was still shaky, and his hand still clutched Bilbo’s bead like a lifeline, he was more himself than when they had entered this mountain, and Bilbo had never been so relieved in his life.

Pinned to the ice, Thorin struggled under the weight of Azog bearing down with his bisected blade. His block had been nearly a second too late - another breath and the tip of that blade would be in his throat. Though it seemed now that would be his fate regardless.

Gritting his teeth, he weighed his options very quickly. It would be a warrior's death, he decided, fit for a king indeed, slaying his enemy at the price of his own life.

And what a life it had been. How weak he had become, buckling under the weight of all the gold in his mountain. In- in the mountain, that was. That mountain (and the gold within) would pass to Fili and Kili, if they managed to survive their wounds.

Oh, his sister-sons. He grieved, now, not only for them, but for Dís, for the knowledge that she very well may be left alone and how he had robbed her of all remaining family with this quest. What good was a home, no matter how grand and beautiful, if there was no one worthwhile to share it with? If it had come at the cost of her sons, of her brother?

How could he, already so disgraceful in every way, leave this unfinished, leave Azog alive to hunt down the rest of his family, what little remained of the line of Durin?

Thoughts racing, Thorin’s forearms began to burn under the strain, and he had made up his mind.

About to slacken his grip, Thorin felt a weight in his shirt, that which was closest to his skin - unmistakably a bead, the one Bilbo had made for him. Had given to him. The miniscule weight of that, of such a promise, made him - Thorin Oakenshield, who had faced down this mighty orc not once but three times now, who had lept from a narrow ledge to save a stranger with barely a thought, who had taunted a dragon - that bead made him hesitate. And that hesitation was just enough of a break that it gave room for one brave Hobbit to dive in, letter opener flashing in the harsh winter sun and a fierce look in his eyes. Though the weight of a Hobbit was nowhere near enough to make an orc fall, it caused Azog to stagger, thus releasing Thorin from his death sentence, and pulling the focus onto Bilbo.

No. Oh, Mahal, no, not him too. Thorin could think of nothing else, couldn’t tear his eyes away as he lay sprawled aside and momentarily forgotten. He watched, helpless, as the elven dagger was knocked out of Bilbo’s hand, and Bilbo fell to the ice, fumbling for something - a ring? - that skidded across the frozen surface before sinking down into frigid, endless waters. He prayed that the Mithril under Bilbo’s coat would be enough, that his gift (though nowhere near as priceless, in his mind, as the bead he had been given) would protect Bilbo when he couldn’t.

Azog seemed to read his very mind, as his foot slammed down on Bilbo’s chest, knocking the breath out of him with a wheeze that struck Thorin in the depths of his heart. Struggling to his elbows, Thorin stopped dead at the blade pointed to Bilbo’s vulnerable throat.

The orc smiled, a sick and terrible thing that twisted his face into a horrendous mass of teeth and pale scarring. Thorin had never been so afraid in all his life.

“The line of Durin,” Azog snarled, “brought so low by a halfling . Lay down your weapon, dwarf, or I shall kill him.” That smile grew wider. “Brutally. In front of you. Surrender or the ice will be red with his blood.”

In his right mind, Thorin knew there was no reasoning with an orc. That no matter what he did, their deaths were inevitable at the hands of such a foe in this circumstance. Yet that didn’t stop his hand loosening around Orcrist, willing him to yield as he had to the trolls that threatened his burglar’s life so many months ago. The sword was dangling from his very fingertips when Bilbo, trembling with effort, dug his nails into Azog’s flesh just above his shin armour and pulled. The shock gave him a moment to claw his way up Azog’s leg, surging out from underneath a slackened pin, and sink his teeth into the meat of Azog’s thigh in one deep bite.

Staggering to his feet, Thorin put weight on his injured foot (that was still sluggishly leaking blood onto the ice) and pressed forward, through the pain, through the fear, gripping Orcrist ever steadily and dodging a strike from Azog that aimed to slice across his chest.

One swing took Azog’s head clean off.

One swing and he fell back, back, and for a horrifying second Bilbo fell with him until his jaw released and he, too, lurched, but away from Azog, and onto the ice a distance away from Thorin.

Thorin collapsed, releasing Orcrist from his grasp. Reduced to an ungainly, helpless crawl, as if he were naught but a babe, Thorin dragged himself to Bilbo’s side. “Bilbo,” At first was all he could say, hands nearly numb with the cold clutching at every part of him, feeling for wetness, for blood and wounds, and finding nothing, he rested his hand between Bilbo’s narrow shoulder blades. Bilbo was hunched over, sputtering, trying to rid his tongue from the taste of orc blood and flesh.

Thorin panted, voice nothing more than a rasp, and said “Sorry about the blood in your mouth,” I wish it was mine. It should’ve been mine, is what he didn’t say, though he thought it and they both heard it. I should have died in that fight. It would have been a noble death. A worthy death. Now I must live an unworthy life - unworthy of my kingdom, of those around me, of Bilbo.

Bilbo looked up at him. His teeth were stained black. Thorin had never found him more beautiful.

Alive. We’re both alive. Mahal, how I thank you. How I thank the strength of mithril, the strength of hobbits.

Tears rose to his eyes unbidden. Too overwhelmed to feel shame (though he had not truly cried in an age), Thorin bent his forehead low and touched it to Bilbo’s, the stinging of his cut only making him press closer. “Bilbo,” He began, voice thick with emotion.

Bilbo shushed him, gentle, one hand finding the back of Thorin’s neck. Both of them were frigid, and they clung to each other there on the ice, breathing the same air until the eagles came.

Of course, lots of work had to be done. Cleanup, for one, and things Bilbo knew far too little about to help with - structural integrity of a mountain kingdom wasn’t really his forte - but also healing and dying and mourning. Not a day went by that Bilbo didn’t gaze at Thorin and feel that overwhelming sense of relief wash over him, filling every crack and crevice in his very soul. When he looked at the boys, Thorin’s sister-sons, battered, bruised, and bloody, but still so alive, warmth filled his chest and stayed there, keeping him shielded from the growing cold better than any liquor he drank ever could.

It all could have turned out so differently.

The taste of orc blood still lingered in Bilbo’s mouth (when he thought about it too long), turning to ash in the dark stillness of the royal family’s medical tent and flooding his senses (the bitter winter wind whipping in his hair, a persistent smell of death that would probably stay on the terrain for years to come, frigid ice beneath his feet that did nothing to quell his fevered memory of the Fell Winter, and above all else, desperation like he had never known).

A moment later to have intervened and Thorin would have let himself be gored on that ice. A second later to have, in a rather shameful way, (if it hadn’t been for the fact that it had saved Thorin’s life and the way Thorin had looked at him after, orc blood smeared on his teeth, like he was seeing all of Bilbo for the first time and liked what he saw) pulled himself up and Thorin would have let Orcrist slip through his fingers. After everything.

And so Bilbo sat, breathing through it, until Thorin woke and stared at him in a way that felt like it said many more things than Bilbo understood, and that strange gravity Thorin carried with him everywhere grounded Bilbo once again. Somewhere in there his hand had found Bilbo’s, holding it tightly, his thumb running in patterns over the hair on the back of Bilbo’s hand.

It wasn’t proper; Bilbo couldn’t find the energy to care. Along the way his propriety had vanished (maybe between being used as a troll hankie and sharing a bed with a future king for no real discernable reason), and at this very moment, it struck Bilbo.

I will never be at home in the Shire ever again.

Of course it would be familiar, worn to golden like a well-loved statue or a doorknob that had seen many guests and many good days. But family - a family that made him feel like he belonged, and not like something to shy away from or take pity on, but someone to embrace, a family like he had seen with all of the brothers, and Thorin with Fili and Kili, something… something he could be a part of. Here. In Erebor.

Bilbo stared at Thorin. Thorin stared back, unwavering emotions behind his eyes and a steady hand holding Bilbo’s.

The days went on like this, until Thorin could put weight on his foot without flinching (and Yavanna, how utterly murderous Bilbo had felt, seeing that angry scarlet split in Thorin’s pale, smooth skin) and Fili and Kili got out of their cots far too fast (ending up sprawled on the floor, as Fili had been using Kili for support to stand and they went down together as always), and after living in the mountain for a season proper, Bilbo had broken the news of his intent to stay.

Erebor, once a barren relic of its people, was once again filled with chatter, an ever-present heat from the working forges, children (or ‘pebbles’ as Bilbo soon learned they were called), and a burning sense of home Bilbo hadn’t felt since he was young.

The brief trip back to the Shire in order to retrieve some belongings he couldn’t do without long-term only confirmed what he was already sure about, and his return to Erebor was met with a set of misshapen doilies, handcrafted by the members of The Company with visibly differing levels of skill. Each one warmed Bilbo’s heart nonetheless.

One unusually balmy night saw Thorin at Bilbo’s door. Though Thorin appeared majestic as ever, the way his hands clasped tightly at the small of his back betrayed his nerves in a tell that, miraculously, never showed in court and always showed in front of Bilbo. It was either that, or the wild look in his eyes, like he had just seen something too good to be true.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin started, elegant as ever with his sudden starting and stopping of sentences.

“Thorin,” said Bilbo, cheerfully deadpan as ever. “What can I do for you?”

Thorin’s mouth quirked (and Bilbo couldn’t look away), “Many things, apparently. Stand in front of orcs and dragons and goldsick kings alike.”

“Like I said, anything for a friend.”

Flushing a little at the reminder of how brazen he had been that night (really, Bilbo, extenuating circumstances?), Bilbo opened the door wider to allow Thorin inside in an unspoken invitation.

When he had turned back around to face Thorin, having shut the door, his breath caught in his throat. Thorin had shed his outer layers, wearing a thin tunic that clung to his softer sections and would have left him looking gentle had it not been for the tense set of his shoulders.

“You…” Thorin halted, once again, casting his gaze to the floor. “You have been living here for months, yet you know little of dwarven customs.” Confused, Bilbo took a step forward. “Now, Thorin, I wouldn’t say that…” “You know little of dwarven courting customs.”

Well. That was true enough. Bilbo didn’t quite see how it was relevant, or that it was really such a dramatic matter. Yet Thorin, bathed in the gentle light of a candle, had gone from nervous to determined (almost battle ready, for crying out loud!), and set his jaw. His hands opened in front of him to reveal that bead Bilbo had painstakingly carved all that time ago.

“With this bead, you not only saved my life - for I am sure I would have fallen much farther into gold sickness otherwise - but likely that of my family and my kingdom. I am forever in your debt, for I don’t know how to even begin repaying you.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to interject, to say that there was no such debt owed, that Thorin had saved his life as well and other true things, but at that moment Thorin looked up and the honest bashfulness on his face startled Bilbo into silence.

“I am aware you did not know of what such a gift means to a dwarf. That a bead - a personal, handcrafted bead, whether it be welded or carved or molded, is most commonly given as a proposal to begin courting.” Here Thorin’s face began to grow red, and, nervous, he sped up his explanation. “So while I am fully aware you meant nothing of- of that nature- by your gift, I come to you this night to give a completely unreasonable request.”

Aware that he was still staring, wide eyed and silent, Bilbo’s heart lurched in his chest.

“Anything,” Bilbo said, and meant it, as he had meant every word back in Laketown.

You’re my dearest friend. And I’d do anything for a friend. Except, this wasn’t just being friendly anymore, was it?

Oh how traitorous his heart had become - to consider Thorin attractive, beautiful even, was one thing (one thing practically anyone with eyes agreed on, he had moaned to Dwalin on an exceptionally drunken night), but to long for him, to love him, was another entirely. Now there was nothing left to do but to let those eyes, blue as a river and just as ensnaring as the fiercest rapids of a spring flood, push him to do one more risky thing.

Bilbo closed the distance between them almost entirely, slipping his hands into Thorin’s own. Panicked like a fawn caught in an open glade, Thorin startled, breath catching audibly in his throat. Bilbo held still.

“Thorin?”

“Please braid my hair.” Thorin all but whimpered, pressing his forehead against Bilbo’s hands, forgetting himself entirely in a rush of hushed embarrassment and desperation.

“So that- so that I may never forget what led us here, how my greed nearly became the downfall of us all, so that I may display your- your work, your commitment and bravery and loyalty in that braid, Bilbo, will you braid your bead into my hair?”

What fools we both have been, he thought, watching Thorin’s shoulders tense and straighten as perhaps some of his sensibility came back to him.

Thorin lifted his head, but looked down still. “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” He said quietly, sounding far more like he was trying to convince himself of that than Bilbo.

“And what if I want it to?”

Yavanna, how sick Bilbo was of propriety. So many of his habits had all but disappeared on the road, travelling with dwarrow. But moreso than doing away with things like salad forks and matching ties with pocket squares, he had finally begun to speak his mind, truly and honestly without layers of social suitability nonsense in between.

Thorin just looked at him, stunned. “What?”

“What if I want it to mean something, Thorin?”

Here Bilbo met his eyes and raised one hand, tracing his fingertips behind the shell of Thorin’s ear and tucking stray hairs back in what he assumed to be an incredibly intimate gesture for dwarves. It appeared to work, when, instead of giving a verbal reply, Thorin just shuddered, eyelids fluttering, then melted all at once. He didn’t lean into the touch, but when his eyes found Bilbo’s once again, he whispered soft and sweet. “Yes, Bilbo, any… any braid you place in my hair I will wear with pride.”

“Even if I find some way to make it say you’re absolutely ridiculous?”

“Even that.”

“Even if I let it show you have an unbelievably flawed sense of direction?

“Well, it would be true.”

“Even if I make it so the whole kingdom knows I am truly, horribly, smitten for their king?”

“Especially so.”

Thorin smiled in a teary-eyed way then, and by that point Bilbo had no other option but to kiss him thoroughly until Thorin forgot his shame, and his madness, and his lonely desperation and allowed himself to just experience this simple feeling. It was only later, with Bilbo sat in his armchair, feet wide apart enough on the floor for a dwarven king to kneel between them, his hands in Thorin’s curls, that they truly spoke of feelings. That Thorin confessed, in one flood of words as he was prone to do, of late nights looking up at the stars and a hollow feeling inside and most endearingly (as his face flushed red) how he had felt all this time. And Bilbo, hands caught weaving a deceptively complicated braid down Thorin’s hair, kissed his forehead and smiled and told him about sitting in Thranduil’s dungeons.

Told him about looking at Thorin’s eyes and thinking of water.

#bagginshield #bagginshield fanfic #thilbo #bilbo x thorin #here it is posted here too!!#haven't posted a fanfic on tumblr before i hope the formatting is ok #enjoy! my first bagginshield fic!

7 notes · View notes