Chapter Text
The air was buzzing. There was no other word for it - dwarves crowded the halls and caverns of the mountain in great troves, their laughter and song and clapping carrying far into the deep bowels of Erebor. The sun had long since set beyond the horizon, and a heavy snowfall laid over the lands like a thick white sheet. Yet inside, the heat of thousands of hearts beating in unison under their Maker´s songs warded off any chill the world might carry.
The dawn of the new year was mere hours away. Durin´s Day lit up the halls beneath the mountain in joyous celebrations.
The further the night progressed, the more the festivities intensified - ale and wine flowed freely, the big caverns packed full of parties and in the great hall of Durin IV harboured a big orchestra. Later, there would be other performances from artists as well, including the long awaited Dance of the Last Night.
The king and his dragon were expected to open it this year - the first partnered Dance since the late queen Rhana had passed away. Thror had always done his duty, but it had been in grief. The Dance of the Last Night was not made to be accomplished alone.
The hall was slowly but surely filling with dwarves. Late in the night, the familial gatherings, which were for gift giving and receiving and the appreciation of friends and family, were long over. The reverend ceremonies and rites, the sacred hush of their holy day, had since given way to the more rambunctious of parties. More than one dwarf had to be kindly but sternly be ushered back home, lest they pass out from their overindulgence of alcohol. That didn´t stop the crowds from hollering their joy throughout the mountain, though.
The Dance was greatly anticipated, and everyone wanted to secure themselves a place to view the traditional ball be opened.
Bilbo was terribly nervous.
He knew the significance this Dance held to the dwarves. It was a goodbye to the year past and a welcoming to the new one together, the steps ancient and unchanged since time immemorial. The Dance was not intended to be executed flawlessly - in fact, it was constructed to be almost impossible to do so - it was made to measure the devotion and commitment of the people to endeavour it in the first place. Mistakes were mortal, and the Dance was mortal in the most humbling of ways. If the Dance were perfect, there would be no reason to continue its practice - no reason to work and improve in the year to come.
So, fittingly, it was almost expected for the king opening the Dance to add his own interpretation of the steps. Each king had a different way of ruling and guarding his people - and such should be his Dance. A young king was expected to still find his own Dance and improve upon it every year following.
Last year, Thorin had performed it alone. While he had never prided himself to be a good dancer in any way, it had been received well. After Thror´s long reign, the people had looked at his - admittedly clumsy - Dance with cheer and new hope.
In the wake of the recent events, no one had anticipated Bilbo to accompany Thorin in this year´s Dance. Everyone had expected another solo from their king. Bilbo had thought so as well, when Frís had brought the topic up.
It had been a total surprise to Bilbo when Thorin had approached him not two weeks ago, a shy blush on his cheeks, asking for his Dance.
The dancing lessons with Dori had been… humbling. No matter how hard he´d tried, it seemed like his feet were too big for his body, his spine stiff as a board, and no matter how often Dori demonstrated the steps slowly, his hands patiently guiding Bilbo through the various figures and positions, he just could not get it right. More often than not, his lessons ended with sore muscles in places he´d never known to have muscles in the first place, bruises on elbows and knees where he´d scraped them raw in his many, many falls, and the profound and utter feeling of failure.
This was a Dance of Thorin´s people.
They had accepted him into their midst, as fully and truly as one could, and they trusted him to learn the sacred rites of their ancestors. Only dwarves were even allowed to know of their existence, let alone learn and perform them. They trusted him to aid their king in the Dance of the Last Night, and they trusted him to do it right.
Yet all he was doing was stumbling through the steps no more gracefully than a newborn fawn, tail lashing wildly for balance as gravity once again won.
His wrist smarted where he'd fallen on it rather harshly the day prior. Thorin had caught him before he´d smacked his head on the tiles, but in his attempt to catch himself, Bilbo´s wrist had already hit the floor. It now sported a particularly deep purple bruise just below the bony joint, hidden beneath Bilbo´s sleeve.
He would not bother Thorin with this as well. It was bad enough that he kept messing up the Dance.
It wasn´t that he couldn't remember the steps. They had ingrained themselves in his mind days ago, the complex series of bends and twists and turns playing over and over again in his mind´s eye. He could see them even as he lay in bed at night, Dori effortlessly gliding through the Dance before his mind's eye.
The dwarf made it look so easy.
It was like he was possessed by Mahal´s spirit himself as he braced his feet and bent his fingers into impossible shapes that apparently faintly represented old runes of warding. It was as if he´d forgotten he had bones, his usually so stout body moving in ways Bilbo would have thought impossible.
He made it look graceful. He made it look correct.
And it didn´t matter how much Bilbo tried and practiced. He´d never be able to do it the same way as Dori. Even Fíli´s Dance was better than his own. The young prince had joined their practice on a few occasions, to polish up his own skills for the upcoming celebrations.
No one expected a refined Dance from the boy.
But everyone would be judging Bilbo´s.
Their eyes would be solely on him that day. Watching. Judging. Appraising whether Bilbo was worth being one of them.
And he was failing them. He was failing Thorin.
He would never be worthy of the Dance.
Bilbo felt like a fraud as he sat among the royal family in the grand sitting room. He did not belong here. His hands were numb as he took the parcels passed to him from each member of the family. He didn´t have anything in return for them. Nothing at all. Nothing belonged to him that hadn´t been a gift to him first. He had nothing for them, and it stung, a bitter poison in his heart.
He unpacked a wonderful, embroidered vest from Frís, silksoft and smooth, fabric schmocked into a faint scale pattern. The smile and thanks came easily over his lips, even as he barely registered her kind words. From Dís and Víli he got a carved comb and a few pins to do his hair with. The wood of the handle was shaped like a ram´s head.
Each gift he admired and praised, promising to use it frequently. It took everything in him to not retreat within his own mind as the joy of the room threatened to drown him. He swallowed heavily and blinked a few times to chase away the haze of fog that seemed to separate him from the room.
He just had to make it through this, then he could return to his chambers for an hour or so before he would have to perform the Dance. He just had to perform this mask a little while longer. Then he could go away for a little while.
Thorin handed him an artfully crafted little wooden box. Bilbo forced his fingers to open and grasp it, setting it down on his lap. He avoided Thorin´s eyes, dropping his gaze onto the dark stained wood instead. He knew Thorin could read him better than anyone - he knew Thorin´s blue eyes would carry concern and worry, and he didn´t have the energy to face him.
He fumbled a bit with the lock, snapping it open and slowly lifting the hinged lid. On red, cushioned velvet sat a book. It was bound in thick, embossed leather, a dragon crafted in thin silver threads above a golden mountain inlaid into the brown hide. It was heavy, the pages of thick, cream parchment. There was no title on the spine, and as Bilbo opened it, he found every single page completely and entirely empty. Not a single letter had been written in the book. Hundreds upon hundreds of pages, without the slightest hint of ink or graphite.
Puzzled, Bilbo looked up, reluctantly meeting Thorin´s eyes. The blue was tainted with old pain, exactly as Bilbo had feared. He dropped his gaze back down, tracing the lines of the mountain with a stiff finger. Bilbo was overcome with a wave of pure guilt as he felt the eyes of the others on him. They didn’t deserve this. He was ruining this special day.
“For your stories”, Thorin said softly. Bilbo gave him a smile.
“Thank you”, he murmured, placing the book gently back into its case. “I´ll be sure to use it.” He could see the muscles in Thorin’s jaw working. Bilbo’s fingers clenched around the box. Then Kíli squealed over one of his new toys as he banged it on the floor, and the moment broke.
“Are you alright?” The question was barely audible over the resumed conversations and the playing of the children. Bilbo wanted to nod, but his body refused him. Damn it all. Sudden tears pricked his eyes and he took a shaky breath. The careful wall Bilbo had constructed threatened to crumble. It was such a simple question. Why could he not simply say yes? Why could he not… lie?
The voices around him faded out, as if he were listening through water. Everything seemed very far away, the fog around him thickening. He was faintly aware of Thorin’s hand on his shoulder, but it felt like there were a dozen thick furs between them.
Why could he not do the Dance? Why was he incapable of doing such a simple, stupid, important thing? Why was he failing, again?
Warmth engulfed him from all sides. A shuddering inhale brought air into his lungs again. Bilbo turned his head, burying his face into that warmth. A few tears spilled over and he drew his legs up, curling into the embrace. A steady rhythm drummed beneath his cheek, slow and steady. Something broad and impossibly gentle settled on the crown of his head, threading between his horns.
For a long moment, that was all he clung to.
The world slowly seemed to shift back into focus, in a way that left Bilbo raw and his heart aching when it found its rhythm again. Thorin was petting soothingly over his back, the wide hand running up and down his spine.
“I have you, ghivashel.” The quiet murmur sounded like a little breeze. “I have you.” It sounded so tender, so *sure*, that a few new tears joined the old ones. A small sob wrenched itself free from his chest, muffled into Thorin’s chest. “I know.” Thorin bent down to softly kiss Bilbo on the head. “You don’t have to tell me why. Just know that I have you, and that this too will pass.”
Bilbo didn’t know how long they sat there. He wasn’t even really sure where “there” was. It was not the sitting room, that he was certain of. It didn’t really matter. He was drifting, suspended between fear and grief and hate, unwilling to resurface. Every once and again, the dreadful thought of the upcoming Dance snuck itself back into his mind, spearing ice through him all over again.
A few times, he tried to open his mouth, speak the words that lay so heavily on his tongue. They had promised each other honesty, had they not? But no matter, his voice failed him. The words eluded him, settling deep and heavy in his chest instead, right beside the guilt.
Thorin held him, without question, quiet love on his lips.
And all Bilbo was doing was failing him.
It wasn’t until a knock rapped against something wooden that Bilbo startled out of his haze. He shot upright, eyes blinking as he saw Dís standing in the doorway.
“Thorin? Bilbo?” She had an apologetic smile on her lips. “We have to get ready soon. The progression is waiting…” She trailed off, eyes wandering. The spear of icy dread twisted in Bilbo’s heart, punching a breath out of him. Despite knowing the time would come, it was all too soon now. Thorin’s arms tightened slightly around him.
“Do you want to stay here?”, Thorin asked quietly against Bilbo’s curls. “It is alright. I can perform the Dance on my own -“
“No!” Bilbo whipped around, heart stuttering. That would be the worst thing he could do; hiding in his chambers like a frightened kitten. He was supposed to be there. He was supposed to dance alongside Thorin. He had to - “I’ll come. I will be… okay.”
Whether that was said to Thorin or to himself, he didn’t know.