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It had been nearly a month, yet waking in the darkness of his chambers in Erebor had not gotten any easier for Bilbo.
There was always a feeling of disorientation, with no sunlight to gauge what time of day it was. It was sometimes a mystery whether he had slept for two hours or ten. Today the dim lantern-light was particularly disorienting; he had been having a lovely dream about a mid-spring birthday party, with dappled sunlight filtering through the new green leaves of the Party Tree, and brightly-colored tents festooned with ribbons and flowers. Bilbo fancied he could still see the afterimage Bag End’s door behind his eyelids as he blinked awake, but if he did, it was gone an instant later.
Rather than lying abed feeling maudlin, Bilbo tossed the heavy furs back and swung his feet onto the stone floor. Most of the bedchambers were heated by the forges, the current directed through a clever system of pipes and terminating in metal grates that could be opened and closed when the desired temperature was reached. Bilbo was grateful, at least, that while he couldn’t wake to sunlight and birdsong streaming through a window, he was at least never cold.
After a quick rinse in his washbasin, feeling a bit more awake and refreshed, he pulled on a pair of coarse-spun trousers and a tunic before stepping out of his chambers in search of food.
Traversing the torch-lit hallways of the mountain was always slightly overwhelming. The metallic ringing of hammers on stone, the low rumble of shifting rock, the clanking of armor, and the shouts of dwarves trying to be heard over everything else (and one another) was cacophonous. The dining hall was equally noisy, with round-the-clock shifts meaning that it was rarely ever truly empty no matter the time of day.
As he plopped a chunk of dark bread next to a bowl of thin porridge and hard-boiled eggs, Bilbo thought that there was more noise than usual today, an undercurrent of excitement and interest humming beneath the usual industriousness. Even without understanding a word of Khuzdul, Bilbo was certain that they were all talking about the event that would be taking place that evening. The repairs were still ongoing, and would be for many years yet, but the great door to the mountain had finally been completed and was being installed tonight. It had deemed appropriate to officially rededicate Erebor as a dwarven stronghold to coincide with the feat.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about it just yet. None of his friends had told him what role he was to play in the ceremony, if any. He wasn’t even certain yet if he was invited, or if this was to be an occasion for dwarves only.
It made sense, he supposed. While a wizard, a hobbit, a skinchanger, and an army of elves had played their parts in returning the mountain to its rightful owners, the next chapter in its history was to written by dwarves, as it should be. Still...he a little thread of melancholy tugging in his chest at the thought.
“Bilbo! Over here!”
Bilbo saw Ori, Bofur, and Bifur waving excitedly at him from one of the long tables, and he felt his spirits lift a little. Maybe his dreams were filled with the Shire, and his waking hours were spent wondering where exactly an adventurous hobbit could find his place in placid rolling hills after traversing mountains, but he couldn’t think of one person in Hobbiton who would be so unabashedly happy to see him before breakfast, let alone three.
“Good morning, Bilbo!” Bofur exclaimed with a grin. He tossed a bit of roll up in the air and attempted to catch it in his mouth - it bounced off his nose and onto the table, prompting a snorting laugh from Bifur and a reluctant smile from Bilbo. Their table manners were still atrocious, but at least it was their own plates getting tossed instead of his.
“And a good morning to you, Bofur,” Bilbo rejoined, taking a bite of his own roll with less theatricality as he regarded his friends. “You’re all looking quite…” he paused, not sure how to phrase it politely. “Scrubbed?” he hazarded.
And it was true. While not an unhygienic dwarf under normal circumstances, Bofur was usually coated with either sawdust or dirt from clearing rubble or fashioning new doors to replace ones destroyed by fire and rotted by time. This morning, his cheeks were shiny and red, as though he’d scoured them clean with a wire brush, and his hands were free of any traces of dirt or grime. Ori’s hair was carefully trimmed, his fingers free of ink smudges; Bifur’s wild mane was as tamed as it was possible to be, with braids carefully plaited and beard combed.
“Thank ye kindly for noticin’!” his friend replied proudly. “Wanted to look my best for the rededication.”
“That’s right!” Bilbo exclaimed with what he hoped was convincing surprise. “That is tonight, isn’t it? Are you all going to be part of the ceremony?”
Bifur’s face was confused. “Of course...we are,” he said haltingly. (Though the axe was no longer imbedded in his skull, his speech had not fully recovered, and was often full of odd stops and starts.) “Hadn’t...Balin...told you.?”
“He’s probably been very busy,” Bilbo remarked, popping an egg in his mouth to emphasize his nonchalance. In truth, he’d seen very little of Balin since the battle. The company had all found their places easily enough, either in positions they had held before in Erebor and Ered Luin, or in new ones granted to them by Thorin as a reward for aiding the quest. He imagined that checking in on one slightly aimless hobbit wasn’t quite as important as keeping a newly-won kingdom functioning while its monarch and heirs were still recovering from grievous injuries.
“I’ll ask if I see him!” Ori chimed in, unaware of Bilbo’s turmoil. “He’s having me and the other scribes write out bits of text for people to read along with for the ceremony.”
“Maybe there’s something I can do to help? I’m very handy with a quill!”
“I’m...not sure?” Ori replied haltingly. “It’s just that it’s all in Khuzdul, and I’m not certain that we’re allowed to share it with you? Not that you don’t deserve to know it!” he added hastily, his face growing red with embarrassment. “It’s just that I’d need Thorin’s permission to teach you. Of course he’d give it! But I don’t think you could learn it well enough to write it correctly in only a few hours? I’m sorry!” Ori looked devastated, and Bilbo hastened to reassure him.
“Of course, of course!” he smiled, patting Ori’s shoulder. “Quite alright! It was only an idea. No need to fret. Maybe I’ll ask Bombur if he needs any help in the kitchens.” Ori seemed placated, but Bifur’s face was still confused, and Bofur’s brows were drawn together.
“In fact, I’ll go do that now!” He stood from the bench, leaving his porridge untouched on the table. “Hopefully I’ll see you all before the evening! Good day!” He skittered away before he could be questioned any further, pretending he didn’t hear Ori’s bewildered farewell.
Bombur was easy to find in the spacious kitchen. His enthusiastic presence encouraged the soldiers to do the best they could with meager supplies. Food was still not abundant, since they were living off of Daín’s stores and the reluctant charity of Laketown...with even more grudging assistance from the remnants of Thranduil’s army. Still, they did the best with what they had, and Bombur had a knack for seasoning that made even army rations a little less grim.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have anything for Bilbo to do.
“I’m only doing the morning shift, and then I’m heading off to prepare for this evening,” was his response to Bilbo’s offer for help. “They all have their jobs, wouldn’t want to get underfoot. But surely you’ll be wanting to spend the day getting ready, as well?”
Bilbo’s chest gave an odd, slightly pained lurch. “I’m not sure. I haven’t heard much about what’s happening.”
“I’d ask Balin if I were you. He’s been arranging the whole thing.”
Arranging the whole thing, but not telling me, Bilbo thought privately as he waved a distracted goodbye to his friend. I think that makes my place pretty clear.
He wandered out of the dining hall, not exactly sure where his feet were taking him. Ori, Bofur, and Bifur had disappeared, which left him feeling equal parts relieved and glum. He hadn’t explored much of the mountain beyond what he had seen in the aftermath of the desperate battle against Smaug. Those memories were hazy anyhow; he hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to his surroundings when he was dead on his feet from lack of sleep and sick with anxiety about his theft of the Arkenstone.
Since the battle, the only place he had visited aside from the dining hall was the makeshift medical wing where Thorin had lain with his nephews for days in the feverish limbo between life and death. His own quarters were near the rest of the Company, but their various duties meant that he rarely saw any of them outside of mealtimes. Unlike them, he had no purpose here. Though physically stronger than he had ever been in his life, he lacked the stamina of even the frailest dwarf, so was all but useless in anything that involved heavy lifting. He had no skills as a craftsman, or even a scribe. His nerve and wit had served them all well on the quest, but did little to assist the practical business of rebuilding.
The ache that he had carried since breakfast intensified. He stopped in the middle of a nondescript hallway, rubbing at his chest as though it could soothe the hurt.
“Master Baggins,” came a strained voice from behind him. “Are you well?” Bilbo whirled, startled, and saw none other than Thorin Oakenshield, newly-crowned King of Erebor, standing in the corridor before him.
He was not quite the imposing figure that Bilbo was accustomed to. He still leaned heavily on a crutch, and walked with a pronounced limp that physicians had concluded he was unlikely to ever lose. His right eye had also suffered serious damage; a tiny nick with the same filthy Orcish blade that bisected his brow had led to an infection that still raged. He wore a patch over it now, in the hope that the various poultices underneath would help draw the poison from the wound. That he had survived at all was nothing less than a miracle. The fact that he was up and walking mere weeks after being on death’s door proved that there was no being more stubborn being on this Earth than Thorin Oakenshield
Sick and stooped with exhaustion though he was, his presence still commanded respect. Bilbo felt his spine straighten, his hand falling away from his chest.
“I’m fine, absolutely fine!” he assured quickly, “Merely a little lost. I’m not sure of the way back to my rooms.”
“I’ll guide you, if you’d like,” Thorin offered quietly. Bilbo didn’t miss the way he shifted his weight a little more onto his good leg as he said it. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you anyhow.”
“I’m sure you have many things to attend to before this evening,” Bilbo demurred, his heart racing a little at the thought of being alone with Thorin while his own emotions were so tumultuous.
His feelings regarding this erstwhile monarch were tangled as brambles in a braid, as his mother used to say. That potent mix of respect, awe, and camaraderie had gained a new sense of wariness, despite a deathbed apology and Bilbo’s bedside vigil while Thorin clawed his way back from the halls of his ancestors. He didn’t know what to say now, but he knew he didn’t wish to refuse, either. As ever, Thorin exerted a hold over him that he couldn’t rightly explain, but that he was helpless to deny.
“It would be no trouble,” Thorin rejoined, and as simply as that, Bilbo acquiesced.
They made their way slowly. Bilbo ambled alongside Thorin in a manner that wouldn’t look out of place at a market, his hands clasped behind his back as he stopped frequently to examine carvings and architectural features. Thorin didn’t comment on them, as he had to save his breath for walking, but he regarded Bilbo’s curiosity with some semblance of pleasure. They had made it to a portion of the mountain that Bilbo recognized without saying one word to each other, and Bilbo was about to make his escape when Thorin stopped entirely. Bilbo halted a second after. He reigned in his impulse to reach out and steady the dwarf beside him, not knowing if the gesture would be appreciated, and assuming it very much wouldn’t be.
Thorin took the decision out of his hands by hobbling over to an alcove and dropping heavily onto the stone bench there, his breathing labored. Bilbo wavered for a moment, not sure whether he should go fetch someone, or wait until Thorin directed him to do something. Once again, Thorin made the decision for him. He patted the space next to him in obvious invitation, and Bilbo couldn’t (didn’t want to?) say no. He sat gingerly, as though settling on the feather mattress of an invalid. Thorin didn’t look at him directly; he stared at the empty walkway ahead of them, but Bilbo could feel the weight of his attention as clearly as a hand on his shoulder.
“How are you liking Erebor?” Thorin began bluntly. “Have you been treated well?”
“Oh!” Bilbo started, a little thrown by the question. “Yes, of course! It’s very...impressive. Everyone is quite busy, but I suppose that’s to be expected when you’re rebuilding after an extended dragon occupation. And the food is an improvement on road rations!”
The barest hint of smile curled Thorin’s lip. “Yes, I suppose they are. Óin insists on me eatinf only gruel while my wound heals fully…” He touched the area just below his sternum to indicate which injury he meant, “But just this week I was allowed an egg for the first time. I swear on my Maker’s forge that nothing has ever tasted so good in all my life.”
“Well, just wait until you’re fully healed!” Bilbo laughed. “There wasn’t enough left by the time you’d arrived at Bag End, but I promise I have a beef stew that would rival even your egg. I’d be happy to make you some.”
“I look forward to it,” Thorin replied, and yes...there was the true smile, the one that made Bilbo’s whole body feel like it was made of light. To have Thorin’s full attention, to bring a moment of levity to this most grave dwarf, whose life had been almost nothing but hardship...this was worth the homesickness and the worry and the gnawing worry that he needed to find something to do in this mountain to make himself useful.
“I think I know my way from here,” Bilbo said after a moment of comfortable silence. “I imagine you have much more to do before this evening.”
“I do,” was the rueful reply. “And I assume you have some tasks you’d like to complete yourself, before the ceremony.”
Curses. There was that ache again.
“About that...I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing? For the ceremony?”
Thorin’s brow creased. “Were you not told?”
“No…” He trailed off. “I wasn’t certain whether it was only for dwarves. I didn’t want to presume.” There, that was some version of the truth. Perhaps it left off the bit about wondering whether this was the first of many small partings between himself and his friends, that would eventually lead to him leaving the mountain forever and making the solitary journey back to the Shire.
“Why would you think that you wouldn’t be welcome, my friend?” Oh, the ache settled even lower, pleasure at being called ‘friend’ sharply conflicting with his politeness, that oh-so-Hobbitish tendency to ingratiate and apologize and quietly stew rather than speak plainly, even when it would serve him better.
Then again, when had there ever been a hobbit who had stolen a kingdom right from under a dragon?
Courage, Bilbo.
“It’s only that...I haven’t been able to do much since the battle ended. I don’t have the strength or skills of a dwarf, so I can’t aid in the reconstruction. I don’t understand the language, so I can’t help in the library. It’s the middle of winter, so there’s nothing I can plant. What does a burglar do when there isn’t anything left to steal? Where does he go? I’m not sure of my place anymore.”
The ache had bloomed into a skittering, anxious energy that snapped at his gut and was only slightly eased by nervous foot-swinging. Silence stretched to truly uncomfortable lengths, and his feet only swung harder, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at Thorin’s face. His short burst of courage had quite run out.
Finally, after a truly agonizing pause where Bilbo wondered if braving the Misty Mountains in winter might actually be worth the trouble after all, Thorin sighed deeply. “I see that I have done wrong by you yet again, Bilbo Baggins.” Bilbo opened his mouth to protest, but Thorin was still speaking. “There is much I wish to tell you, but there is too much to say and not enough time. Rest assured, your presence will be very welcome tonight. I will send for you when the hour is close. And now, I must take my leave. Good day.”
Thorin stood, leaning heavily on his crutch as he did so, and shuffled back down the dark corridor that they had traveled together moments before. Bilbo was left alone once again, only now he was absolutely befuddled.
Hours later, freshly scrubbed and standing in front of a nearly-bare wardrobe searching for something suitable to wear, he was no less confused. He was, though, becoming progressively more anxious. The noise outside his rooms had been steadily climbing, yet no one has appeared at his door to tell him where he should be.
Pulling on a pair of slightly dusty grey-blue trousers that were far too long, and a tunic that fit too loosely about his shoulders, he felt out-of-sorts, like a child playing dress-up at a formal party. It wasn’t helping his nerves one bit.
Just as the panic was ratcheting up to an unbearable level, a series of loud knocks sounded on his door. It was like ten fists were pounding on it all at once. He jumped, taking a halting step toward the dresser drawer where he kept his little golden ring in a locked box, before his mind caught up and he realized that his escort must have arrived. Straightening his clothes as best he could, he crossed the sitting room and pulled it open.
In a scene eerily reminiscent of that first night at Bag End, a pile of dwarves tumbled across the threshold and onto the floor.
“Get off my back…!”
“Whose knee is in my hair, I swear to Mahal…”
“Get up, you buffoons! We’ve a schedule to keep!”
Bilbo could barely tell who was who. It wasn’t until they were all standing before him putting their braids and dignities to rights that he recognised his friends. Óin and Glóin were in the Iron Hills at the moment, serving as chief physician and ambassador, respectively, so they were missing. Dori, Nori, Balin, and the Durins were also absent, but everyone else was standing on his threadbare rug in various states of disarray. Ori held a small bundle of cloth in his arms, which he thrust into Bilbo’s hands so that he could re-center his own tunic.
“That’s from Dori. He’s already at the ceremony, but he made this for you. He didn’t have time for more, but he said it would flatter you. The pin is from Nori, and he told me to tell you not to ask where it came from. And to not say that he told you not to ask where it came from if Dori asks you…”
Bilbo allowed the cloth to unfurl, revealing a long, open vest in various hues of blue and green. The fabric was of much finer quality than anything he currently owned, with lovely geometric stitching along the armholes and down the front. And there was indeed a stunning emerald and sapphire pin attached to the front, absolutely beautiful and probably worth his entire smial and all its contents.
“It’s far too much…” he began, only to have the vest snatched out of his hands by Bofur. Before he could even think to protest, it was being pulled over his unresisting arms. It completely covered the loose fabric at his collarbones, making him feel much less exposed.
“If ye think that’s too much, just see what Balin sent.”
Dwalin stepped forward, clearly amused, and presented a leather belt that looked to be studded with even more sapphires. The buckle was an intricately wrought design of silver and precious stones that Bilbo couldn’t hope to identify, with an emerald the size of a chicken’s egg at its center.
“My brother sends his apologies for not being here to accompany you himself, and for his ‘inexcusable neglect of late.’” Dwalin smirked. While he was speaking, he looped the belt around Bilbo’s waist and fastened it. At this point, Bilbo was too stunned to even protest. “Thorin gave him a right earful for it. That will keep me warm at night for years to come.” The dwarf stepped back, taking in the full picture Bilbo presented. With the two layers of fabric secured under the belt, Bilbo looked (and felt!) much less like a fauntling in adult’s clothing. The style was foreign, but at least it fitted him properly.
“Now you look like a dwarf,” Dwalin pronounced, and this was met with cheers all around. Amidst the fray, Bifur took up one of Bilbo’s hands and slipped two thin golden bracelets over it. He patted him on the shoulder without a word, only for Bombur to take his place and slip another one on, this one enameled in red, blue, and purple with small gemstones spaced evenly around its circumference. He also slipped a flask into the vest pocket with a wink. (“For after the speeches!” he mock-whispered.)
In the midst of the merriment and back-slapping and hugs and shouts, Bilbo was silent. But it wasn’t the painful, awkward silence of this morning. Happiness was blooming in chest, warmth replacing the encroaching coldness, and he found himself giddy with excitement, just being with his friends... feeling like he was one of them, and that they cared for him even though he couldn’t lift anything heavier than a buttered roll without breaking a sweat.
He felt his joy was finally complete, travelling in the middle of the group along the crowded corridors toward the main gates. Everyone seemed to be in a festive mood. Dwarves were calling to each other and making jokes, rejoicing in their break from work.
It wasn’t until he was led apart from the main throng, pulled along by the the company and into a smaller chamber, and he saw Fíli and Kíli standing in the center of the room — still bandaged and bruised but both conscious and alive — that the elation inside of him truly reached its peak.
“Bilbo!” Kíli called, waving his non-broken arm. “Glad you could make it!”
“I could say the same to you!” he laughed, overjoyed. “Should you even be out of the hospital wing?”
Fíli interjected, “Trust me, if I could get stabbed by another orc to get out of this, I would.”
“If that is so, I’d be happy to send you back,” Thorin replied dryly. “Óin would be thrilled to know you were getting plenty of peace and quiet in your convalescence.” Fíli’s mouth shut so fast Bilbo almost heard the click of his teeth from across the room.
For this occasion, Thorin was dressed in a cloak of dark blue trimmed with white fur. He wore no jewels, only his customary beads and rings. His crown was muted silver and looked rough, almost unfinished, but it suited him. He was seated for the moment, his crutch propped up nearby. He looked much less exhausted than he had a few hours ago.
Bilbo’s easy mood was tempered a bit, but it couldn’t be helped. Thorin cut a kingly figure even in rags, and bedecked in such finery, even without gems or gold, no one could mistake him for anything except the king.
And now all that kingly attention had shifted to his own hobbity self. He surveyed Bilbo’s outfit from head to toe, and Bilbo shifted uncomfortably beneath the scrutiny. He wondered why it suddenly seemed quiet. He turned around, and it appeared that the company had stepped into an antichamber, leaving the two of them alone.
Oh dear.
“You look very fine, Bilbo,” Thorin said approvingly.
“Thank you. You look,” he paused. “Well, you look very royal,” he finally declared. Thorin chuckled, and Bilbo was both pleased and nervous.
“Would you permit me to add one more thing?” Thorin continued, and Bilbo felt his nervousness increase.
“Only if it’s a very small thing, please. I already feel quite weighed down with riches.”
“It’s very small, indeed. You’ll hardly notice it.” Thorin levered himself off the bench with some difficulty, making his way over to Bilbo in halting steps without the aid of his crutch. Bilbo eyed him carefully, waiting for him to fall, perhaps, but only a few second later Thorin stood before him, completely steady.
“Before I give it to you, I need to apologize yet again. While it is true that there is much to be done to rebuild, I should have made time to speak to you before now. You have done much for us…and your role in this company is greater than that of a mere burglar. I owe you not only my own life, but that of my family and my friends. I am sorry, Bilbo.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Bilbo protested. “You are...so very important to me. All of you. I would have done it all again a hundred times.”
Thorin’s eyes softened. “You are a true friend, Bilbo. I hope that one day I have a fraction of the kindness, bravery, and wisdom you possess.” Bilbo felt his face flame at this, but embarrassment choked any protest he might have made.
“And in light of that friendship, I wish to offer you a gift.” He opened his hand, and in it lay a single iron bead. To Bilbo’s untrained eye, it looked very much like the ones Thorin wore, but he couldn’t tell one rune from another, so he didn’t know if it was identifal or not. He looked up at Thorin questioningly.
“Beads signify many things in dwarven culture. There are beads for battle, for craft, for intention, for family, for marriage. This bead, forged by my own hand, is a symbol of my deepest regard. As king, I would name you Dwarf-friend. It would bestow upon you the highest possible honor, so that no matter where you traveled, any dwarf would recognize you and treat you as they would a member of my own family.”
Bilbo was stunned. “And they could tell that...from
just one tiny bead?!”
Thorin laughed. A full, true, belly-shaking laugh. Bilbo didn’t know what amused him so, but he couldn’t stop himself from smiling along. The king’s mirth was infectious.
“The bead itself says only a few of those things. And perhaps it will take a few years for all dwarven settlements to know that Erebor has been reclaimed, and who sits on her throne. In the meantime, though, it would certainly grant you a hot meal and safe passage in your travels, should you choose to leave us.”
“However…” Thorin hesitated. “I would also like to offer you a place here. In Erebor. I would value your counsel as I learn to be the king that my people need. Your steady head and kind heart have always steered me correctly before. I would be honored if the...if you....continued to do so.”
“Stay...here?” Bilbo echoed. His mind whirled, a chaotic mix of elation, terror, worry, confusion...but above all…
Hope.
“I understand if you wish to return home. I have kept you from it for too long already,” Thorin continued. His voice was subdued, and he was looking at a place on the floor behind Bilbo’s shoulder.
“I mean. Yes, I would like to return home. At some point. To set my affairs in order. But…” His eyes met Thorin’s, and he saw the same tentative hope on the dwarf’s face that he felt growing in his own heart.
“I do think that I wish to stay here. With you, with the company. I don’t know about counsel, or being kind or steady, or beads, or any of that. And I don’t know a word of Khuzdul. But you are my dearest friend. And I want to help you however I can,” he finished nervously.
He only had a moment to take in the beautiful, heartbreakingly ecstatic expression on Thorin’s face before he was swept into a hug whose warmth seemed to seep into his very bones. This was not an embrace of desperate relief, like the one on the Carrock. Nor was it the frantic clutch of one person trying to tether another to life for just a few more moments.
This was coming home.