Chapter Text
“Dwalin,” Thorin greets as he emerged from his quarters early the next morning. He barely slept, worried about Bilbo, wondering if he shouldn't have just carried him out of that dark cell. Hopefully the candles and books will help him, for Thorin doubts he will be allowed a second visit during daytime.
“What brings you here?” Thorin asks when Dwalin inclines his head.
His old friend frowns, looking left and right. The walls have ears, but then Dwalin apparently decides that those ears may hear what he has to say.
“An envoy from Dale arrived and demands to speak with the King,” Dwalin reports.
Thorin sighs. At least, he thinks, Dale hasn’t immediately sent out an armed force.
“They're threatening to lock their gates to all traders from Erebor should the hobbit not have been released by noon,” Dwalin continues, and Thorin’s shoulders slump. “Has my grandfather met with him?”
Dwalin presses his lips together. “They're meeting in half an hour.”
Thorin closes his eyes for a moment. This is unlikely to go well, but he will need to be there. “Anything else?”
“According to our intelligence,” Dwalin says, “The Greenwood has begun to gather their forces at the eastern border of their realm.”
From where they can reach Erebor in a day on horse. It’s an unmistakable threat.
When Thorin steps onto the Royal families’ shaded balcony in the throne hall, his brother and sister are already there. Dis’ expression is uneasy and Frerin plainly looks concerned.
Below, the envoy from Dale has just finished expressing their ultimatum - politely and respectfully, but the man’s posture makes it clear he will have an answer.
Thror, to Thorin’s surprise, does not look furious. An ill foreboding settles in his stomach.
“Your ultimatum is understandable, but misguided,” Thror replies smoothly. “Tell Dale’s King that they needn't worry - this plan had long been in the making and Erebor will break the hobbits’ power over the east and all of Arda before long.”
The man does not answer, but Thror does not wait for his reaction either. “Should Dale support us in this, I promise the city shall be rewarded greatly. We all will regain our freedom and rightful power!”
Once upon a time Thorin would have believed these words.
“I am glad to hear this was carefully conceived,” the envoy replies in a neutral voice and Thorin wonders if he does not mock Thror. And he also, with a shudder wonders, just how far this plan extended - were the riots in Ithilien helped along by Erebor after all?
“I shall carry your offer to our King, but would ask for you to answer one question which I will know Dale concerns,” the envoy replies evenly. “How will a free east come by its food?”
Thror waves his hand. “We have farmable land here, have we not? And Erebor has gold enough, and other riches. We will trade south as we did centuries ago.”
Except that the south is allied with the hobbits. Dale does not have Erebor’s riches, either. The land around them is not suited for farming - winter lasts for six months alone; the soil could never produce enough to support both Dale and Erebor.
“I understand,” the envoy replies tonelessly. “I shall bear your words to my King, and you will have Dale’s answer within the day.”
Thorin’s heart skips a beat. This is it, he thinks in disbelief, this is how it all goes into ruin right before his eyes, and for all his knowledge and strength he's powerless to stop it.
As he recites the usual formalities, Frerin turns to his siblings and hisses. “We're screwed.”
Thorin swallows, while Dis grimaces. She looks at Thorin. “How do you think the hobbits will react?”
“I …” he doesn't really know, he finds. The Thain, he believes, would not order anything rash or vengeful. However, he also recalls that many in the Shire have been discontent with Erebor for a long time. “They won't be happy.”
“Would they send soldiers?” Dis asks.
Thorin is about to blurt out that the Shire doesn't have an army. Then he recalls that they don't need one. “Probably not,” he says instead.
“They needn't, since Dale and the Greenwood will intervene on their behalf,” Frerin adds grimly.
Dis sighs and shakes her head. “How can grandfather believe we could win this? This is madness - Dale won't choose gold and gems over their reliable food supply.”
“Didn't grandfather also send for support from Dain?” Thorin puts in.
“Would Dain support this madness?” Frerin wonders.
“I wonder,” Dis says. “I suppose we shall find out soon.”
Loud footsteps outside draw Bilbo’s attention away from the book he has been straining to read in the dim candle light. The footsteps thus quickly, heavily, quite unlike the guards that leisurely strolled by to push a plate with dry bread and a jug of water through the a hatch in the door.
A key turns in the lock, and Bilbo puts the book aside, straightening where he sits on the hard cot of his cell. Maybe it's Thorin, a hopeful voice in his heart suggests, but he doubts it.
Indeed, it's not Thorin.
It's Thror himself, flanked by no less than four heavily armored guards and a number of courtiers who marches into the cell, a dark frown on his face. He stops a mere three steps from Bilbo, towering above him, and looking with a frown at the book and the candles.
“Hobbit,” he demands, “Where did you get these things?” Behind him the nobles whisper among themselves.
He probably suspects Thorin, Bilbo thinks, and finds his own lips curling. “How about I answer this once you inform me on what grounds I have been imprisoned. Or how the letter lying about my husband’s condition came to bear your personal seal.”
His heart hitches, but Bilbo forces himself to remain calm as Thror’s face turns red, then purple, and the King seems a hair’s breadth from lunging at him. He recalls Thorin’s words about the change in his grandfather, and reminds himself to tread cautiously.
“Haven't your kind been lying to us all along?! Haven't you cheated and tricked the entire world to do your work?!” Thror roars, unfettered. “And then you dare to tell us that our gems are worthless, that you want new terms, when your plan was to enslave us all along!”
A madman’s rant, Bilbo thinks. But the courtiers and the guards believe it and abruptly a surge of fear runs through Bilbo’s chest.
“Take away the candles! And the other things!” Thror orders. Bilbo makes a noise in protest, but two guards step forward, crowding him in, and Bilbo has to watch in growing nervousness as another guard collects his things from the small night table. The candle flickers out.
And the call immediately goes utterly dark. Bilbo’s heart jumps in fear, but he grinds his teeth. The dwarves can still see, and he can hear them.
“Now, I need you to write a letter to the Thain for me. Your grandfather, as I am given to understand, will likely be rather concerned for you.” Thror’s voice sounds much smugger in the impenetrable darkness. Behind him the courtiers whisper ever more loudly, seeming to echo Thror’s words.
“Terribly sorry,” Bilbo quips back despite his racing heart. “You took away the candles and I can't write blind.”
Thror takes a deep breath. “Very well. In that case we’ll have to add something else to convince the Thain. How about an ear?”
Bilbo's blood runs cold. “You -” he begins, and he never heard the guards move, but abruptly his arms and shoulders are gripped and he’s wrenched from the bed and forced to his knees. He can't move, can't breathe -
Heavy footsteps approach. A blade is drawn; a hand roughly grips his head -
“My King,” somebody speaks up, “Is this wise?”
Thror stops. Bilbo's entire body trembles, he doesn't dare move. He can't see where the blade is, how close it might be. His shoulders ache from the uncomfortable hold; his wrists are bruising already.
“What do you mean, Balin?” Thror demands and Bilbo remembers that name from Thorin’s tales of Erebor.
“My King, I wonder if harming our hostage may not lose us support from Dale and other potential backers.”
Thror doesn't react.
“We also would be able to present a better threat,” somebody else suggests. “Keep the hostage unharmed, and when they fail to comply, successively increase pressure. An ear, a finger, a hand …”
Bilbo shudders. His voice is caught in his throat, and he's both, angry and terrified, and wants nothing more than to be far, far away from here.
“Very well,” Thror agrees, and before Bilbo can breathe out in relief, hard hands tighten painfully around the braid in his hair and a sharp blade cuts it off, bead and all.
Bilbo gasps.
“You won't keep that one,” Thror spits in disgust. “That marriage was a sham; now my grandson is free to a partner that is worthy of him.”
It's like a punch in the gut, despite Bilbo knowing better. Thorin was here last night, told him differently, and warned him that his grandfather was perhaps going mad.
“Take his ring,” Thror orders, and somebody wrenches his family ring from Bilbo’s finger. A pained noise escapes his throat, but then it's loose, and the guards let him go.
He drops to the floor, blind and gasping for air, while footsteps turn to the door and Thror gives the order to leave. Nobody seems to look to him, and Bilbo keeps his face down, unsure he could control his expression. His heart races, his pinkie throbs in pain, and the missing bead feels like a part of his head had been cut off.
What a terrible, terrible mess, he thinks, one hand reaching up to feel the hacked off strands of his braid.
“Dale has closed its gates,” Dis reports at lunch. Thror is absent, and neither Frerin nor Thorin are surprised. “All dwarves there must either stand with Dale or return to Erebor ere nightfall.”
“So they're siding with the Shire,” Frerin dryly summarizes.
“Does the Shire even know they're at war yet?” Dis asks, glancing to Thorin who merely shrugs.
Frerin grimaces. “Apparently grandfather visited the dungeon this morning. If the Shire doesn't know yet, they'll know in a few days I suppose. Or however long it'll take the raven.”
Not very long, Thorin thinks and swallows down the dread.
“Do you think you could write and plead for time on our behalf?” Dis asks, casting a calculating look toward Thorin. “Cite inner troubles or just tell them that grandfather had gone mad.”
Frerin straightens abruptly. “You would tell an outsider?”
Dis looks to him coolly. “It's difficult to miss nowadays.”
“Mad?” Thorin echoes faintly. “But he…” The King may be acting irrational and following a plot doomed to certain failure. But to call him mad -
Dis huffs as she turns to Thorin. “Haven't you noticed? All he cares about lately are gold and power - if the dwarves of Erebor starve for his glory, it's what he will do.”
Thorin's mouth runs dry. “I …” Hadn't thought it was quite that bad, he finishes.
“Even so,” Frerin interrupts, “what would the Shire do with that information? It doesn't change that grandfather is King, or that the hobbit is his hostage.”
Dis pushes her plate aside energetically. “They might not send an army upon us immediately.”
“Are you certain of that?” Frerin asks, leaning back in his seat. “We know nothing of their intentions or plans for the east.”
“Whatever their plan, I think it doesn't include starving us,” Dis declares. “I can live with that.”
“How about you, Thorin,” Frerin inquires. “What do you think will happen should the hobbits find out about grandfather’s affliction?” He tilts his head. “And do you know anything about their plans for the east in general?”
Thorin can only sigh, recalling the meetings he witnessed and the conversations he overheard. “I … Don't think they have any interest in conquering Erebor or similar things.” Indeed, he thinks, while the hobbits were certainly interested in extending trade relations, they also seemed troubled at arranging everything. He still can see Bilbo bowed over piles of parchment, working out the calculations for Ered Luin.
“Doesn't change that they may want to get revenge on that hobbit’s behalf,” Frerin says, jerking his head toward the door. Dread abruptly fills Thorin’s heart - has Bilbo been harmed?
“Thorin?” Dis draws him from his nightmares. “Will they want revenge?”
Thorin swallows. “I don't know,” he says. The Thain did not strike him to approve of violence. But Lobelia had been all too willing to call on the orcs for support. “It's possible, though.”
Dis frowns. “For what it's worth, if you could write, or maybe convince Bilbo to write on our behalf, it would win us some time to sort things out.”
Thorin blinks. “And have Bilbo remain in the dungeon in the meantime?”
Dis flinches. “We'd …” She looks to Frerin, who shrugs. “Not for long,” she assuages, but it doesn't truly soothe the unease coiling in Thorin’s chest.
There is something his siblings aren't telling him. Thorin wouldn't have minded, but it seems they want his help with whatever they are plotting.
“How about you help me break Bilbo out and abscond with him? We'd be out of your hair, and the hobbits had little reason to strike Erebor,” Thorin suggests. He folds his arms over his chest, waiting.
“Dale wouldn't ever open its gates to us again,” Dis counters. “Nor would any of the cities and countries allied with the hobbits dare to trade with us ever again. You would abandon Erebor to this?”
“Erebor would crumble,” Frerin summarizes, eying Thorin darkly.
Thorin purses his lips defensively. “Won't grandfather's plan end the same way?”
His siblings exchange another look.
“What will you do?” Thorin asks, his patience beginning to wane. “If you expect me to ask for time on your behalf, I do need a very good reason.”
“As we told you,” Frerin replies stiffly. “We're looking to sort matters out.”
Thorin wants to shout that that's not enough. “You expect me to let my husband suffer in the meantime?”
“He's -” Ferin begins, but Dis interrupts him with a harsh gesture.
“You do love him, don't you?” she asks, intrigued.
Thorin presses his lips together. “For what it's worth, yes. And I will break him out, with your help or without.”
“If you do that, Erebor’s dead,” Frerin replies sharply.
Thorin cringes. He doesn't want that. Doesn't want to have to make that choice.
“It needn't come to that,” Dis says diplomatically. “I will admit the development surprises me, but maybe something can be done about the hobbit’s accommodation.”
“I doubt grandfather will allow that,” Thorin snorts.
Dis purses her lips and shifts her weight uneasily. She casts another glance to Frerin who eventually sighs and shrugs his shoulders.
“Thorin,” Dis says softly. “Do you realize what we may have to do?”
He frowns. To undo this plot they must convince the King to change his mind. Something that to Thorin appears impossible, unless of course his siblings know more.
“You'll persuade grandfather?” he asks.
Dis closes her eyes, and Frerin shakes his head and laughs bitterly. “If it only was that easy,” he says, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. “No, I fear grandfather will not listen to any of us.”
Thorin blinks. “Then what…” A notion dawns on him in the back of his mind, dark and terrifying and he can't believe they'd even contemplate that.
“You do recall he sent father to the Iron Hills,” Dis says. “Support against Dale and the Greenwood.”
But who is to say, Thorin realizes abruptly, that the Iron Hills will support Thror? True, he wields the Arkenstone but if his own kin dares to stand against him -
Preposterous.
“Will –“ Thorin begins and then cuts himself off. They have no way of knowing for now. Dain is a reasonable character and the Iron Hills had been looking to trade with the Shire recently.
Revolting against the King is treason punishable by death. It’s just not done. Men may have their uprisings and revolutions, but dwarves are steadfast in their loyalty.
Except...
Thorin looks at his siblings with wide eyes. He'd not guessed, not thought they'd dare to -
But apparently this is where they all have to take a stand.
“Alright,” Thorin agrees with his heart in his throat and his mind spinning with disbelief. “I shall speak to Bilbo. But he cannot stay in that cell.”
Thorin has to wait until after nightfall once again to sneak into the dungeon. His grandfather orders the family to gather for a grand dinner - most of his advisors and nobles are present as well.
Some, Thorin observes as he pokes as his beautifully served piece of venison, look overjoyed with the turn of events. His grandfather’s grand speech of Erebor near to reclaiming its glory and proper status in the world draws roaring applause. Yet others exchange worried looks, and hushed whispers ask for the state of Erebor’s stores, and relations with Dale.
The city is mobilizing. And Erebor’s gates have been closed for the first time in centuries.
“To renewed glory!” Thror toasts and those cheers echo in Thorin’s ears when he descends the long staircases into darkness.
The prison warden hesitated to let Thorin in. “The King ordered no visitors,” he relates.
Thorin growls. “This is my husband.”
And the warden relents. Perhaps he heard of the events occurring above, perhaps Thror’s actions have not convinced him - but Thorin doesn't care.
He stomps forward, clasping the key tightly. Knocks, calls Bilbo’s name, opens the door -
And stops short.
The cell, once again, is utterly dark. Books and candles have disappeared; and Bilbo sits curled on the bed, his back to the wall, hands in his hair, and golden eyes almost fearfully glance into Thorin’s direction.
“Thorin?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” Thorin confirms, looking around in befuddlement. “What happened to the candles?”
Bilbo’s face twists into a bitter grimace. “The King came to visit,” he says, “He did not approve.”
And Thorin's heart breaks. He crossed the distance in three long strides and sinks to his knees before Bilbo’s curled up form.
“I'm so sorry,” he whispers, his mind racing. It must have been hours since his grandfather came here, hours that Bilbo had to sit alone in utter darkness.
A pale hand reaches out in Thorin's general direction and he catches it gently. “I'm sorry.”
Bilbo uncurls a little, stretches out tired limbs, and lifts his face to look (unseeingly) toward Thorin. He is pale, this much Thorin realizes even in the dim light, unhealthily so. His heart clenches and worry surges - but all he can do is grasp Bilbo’s hand a little tighter and carefully tug the hobbit against his own chest.
“Did … Did anything else happen?” Thorin asks hesitatingly. He knows though, and Bilbo exhales softly against his chest.
“He was sending a letter to the Shire,” Bilbo tells him. “Wanted me to sign it.” He laughs bitterly. “I refused and he threatened to have my ears cut off.”
Thorin can't stop himself from gasping. He instinctively turns to look at Bilbo’s ear - but it's hale and in one piece, and relief fills his chest.
“Balin stopped him,” Bilbo says. “But he took one of my rings and cut off your braid.”
Black fury suddenly boils in Thorin’s chest. His grandfather -
For all his mad plotting, Thorin did not expect him to lay hand on such sacred a symbol as a marriage braid.
Now his fingers can feel the chopped of ends of a number of soft curls, and Thorin growls, unconsciously tightening his hold on Bilbo. The hobbit makes an uneasy sound, and Thorin relents.
“I'm sorry,” he says tiredly, “I'm sorry for all of this. I wish there was something I could do.”
Bilbo says nothing, and with a heavy heart Thorin recalls what he must ask of his betrothed.
“Actually,” he begins tentatively, “there is something being done. I … do not know the details, but grandfather’s actions have caused much concern. You saw him, Bilbo. This is not the man I know.”
Bilbo untangles himself slightly, but in the dark he can't make out Thorin’s face. “He did not appear entirely sane,” Bilbo agrees. “But his orders are being obeyed.”
“Reluctantly,” Thorin assures.
“From what I heard not too few were happy to see a hobbit being put into place,” Bilbo replies, a note of spite seeping into his voice.
Thorin’s heart clenches. “I know. This kind of rhetoric … It's spread unchallenged for too long in this mountain. You remember how I used to be.”
“I do,” Bilbo says and sighs. His shoulders slump in Thorin’s grip. “But whether I understand or not, I am still a prisoner among many who wish to see my head roll. Knowing that those demanding my head were manipulated won't save me."
And of course he's right. Thorin flinches. “It won't come to that,” he promises.
“Your grandfather would have cut off my ear today,” Bilbo returns.
Thorin swallows uneasily. He can't - he can't promise Bilbo’s safety after all. “But he was stopped,” he says instead. “And he knows he can't harm you; to him you are a valuable hostage.”
Bilbo remains unconvinced. “Does a hostage need ears?” He asks. “Does a hostage need legs? I'm sorry, Thorin, but I don't trust your grandfather to remember the worth of an unharmed hostage before long. And it will take long before my grandfather reads that letter and longer still before a reply arrives in Erebor. I'm not sure if I -”
Bilbo stops, brows cinched, and Thorin feels worry twist his stomach. “Bilbo? What is it?”
The hobbit takes deep breath. “Just the darkness getting to me, Thorin,” he evades. And looking closely Thorin can see that his skin has grown paler and taken on an unhealthy sheen.
“I'll try to get you out here as soon as I can, Bilbo,” Thorin vows. “I may not be able to get you out of the mountain, but at least out of this prison.”
Bilbo manages a tired smile. “How?”
“As I said, things are stirring. My siblings, they are trying to get the situation worked out, and once my father returns we may be able to change grandfather’s mind. But in the meantime, we need to stabilize the situation.”
“Stabilize?” Bilbo echoes. Thorin wonders how what he is about to say would ever sound good, but he had no choice.
“As things stand, Dale and the Greenwood have heard of your imprisonment. The elves are readying their troops, Dale was offered to make joint cause with Erebor but they won't. By tomorrow Erebor will be under siege and unless word from you or your grandfather arrives they may attack Erebor sooner or later.”
Bilbo's brows furrow. He moves his lips without speaking, puzzled and thinking. “They… would wage war on Erebor to free me,” he summarizes, blinking.
Then he turns to Thorin. “And you would bide me to tell them not to?”
Thorin swallows. Nods. “Only long enough so we may work out our troubles within. I would not see my people die for politics they have no fault in.”
“But those people would see my head roll on a rumor,” Bilbo replies sharply. His hands tighten in the fabric of Thorin’s shirt.
“I know what you're trying to do, Thorin, and it is noble indeed,” Bilbo murmurs, exhausted. “But while I sit here in utter darkness and am at your grandfather’s mercy, I will not write on your behalf.”
“Bilbo,” Thorin starts against better knowledge, and Bilbo shakes his head.
“No, Thorin,” he says. “Your grandfather would see me killed in the blink of an eye, and as long as they take no stand against him I must think all of Erebor shares this desire.”
Thorin bows his head. It's a blow - but he understands.
“Alright,” Thorin says and pulls Bilbo closer against him.
“Get me out of here and I will intercede,” Bilbo offers and lets his head rest against Thorin’s chest. “I don't want to see blood spilled any more than you do.”
“Alright,” Thorin agrees.
Morning dawns tense and uneasy, and Thorin joins his siblings for breakfast, tired but unable to sleep a moment longer. He lingered with Bilbo until the early hours, until Bilbo had long since fallen asleep, finally at rest from the day’s turmoil. But the knowledge he left Bilbo alone in that dark cell does not sit easy on Thorin’s conscience and he pushes his food across the plate.
“Did you speak to your hobbit last night?” Frerin asks after the staff has retreated.
Thorin swallows. Nods.
“Did he write that letter?” Frerin wants to know with unveiled urgency.
Thorin sets his cutlery down. “No,” he says, “He will write it once he has been released from that cell but no earlier.”
“You agree,” Dis observes quietly from where she watches them both.
“Thorin!” Frerin exclaims, and leans forward across the table. “He needs to write that letter! We’ll all be dead if he doesn't!”
“And who guarantees his safety?” Thorin asks quietly in return, thinking about the texture of cut hair under his fingers. “Were you aware grandfather was about to cut off his ear? Balin stopped him. But even Balin could not stop him from cutting off the marriage braid.”
Dis gasps, and Frerin pales. “He…” Frerin presses his lips together. “That is unforgivable, yes, Thorin, I see. But we need that letter! It's a matter of hours before we come under attack, and that will be a bloodbath!”
Thorin swallows. “Then we need to get Bilbo out of that cell.”
Frerin makes to interrupt him, but Thorin presses on. “He is not a dwarf, and what is dim light to us it utter darkness to him. Grandfather won't allow him any candles either - he's basically sitting where he can't see a thing, and if you would visit you could see that it's harming him.”
“But if we all -” Frerin begins, but is interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. They all exchange glances, then Dis calls to enter.
A young, harried guard stumbles inside, wide-eyes and out of breath.
“Your highness,” he gasps out, “Erebor is under siege.”
Thorin’s stomach sinks. Frerin pales.
“For what reason?” Dis asks, brows furrowed.
The runner struggles to breathe. “Dale and the Greenwood, your highness,” he manages. “They demand the hobbit be released before nightfall.”
Erebor has fallen into a mode of subdued panic. People are outside in the halls and corridors, whispering of preparations, of war - but in the end they find there is little they can do. With the gate closed and surrounded, nobody can leave Erebor.
Thror will not negotiate.
“There is no need,” he tells his grandchildren when they find him on his way to the throne hall. “Thrain will be here by afternoon with reinforcements from the Iron Hills. He sent his Raven last night. We needn't worry - it's Dale and Greenwood who should.”
Thorin pales at the implications, but Frerin and Dis press on, undaunted. “Should we not at least negotiate then?” Dis says. “Would you have them attacked from behind with no warning?”
“They have sided with the enemy,” Thror replies coolly. “What happens to them they have brought upon themselves.”
Thorin shudders. And wishes the alliance before they gates would not wait to attack, for now the outcome looks ever more uncertain. Thror marches ahead and enters the hall, where clamor and applause await him. The siblings remain in the corridor, looking at each other.
“We should -” Frerin starts.
Dis shakes her head. “It's too early. We haven't had word yet.”
Thorin sucks in a sharp breath.
Frerin purses his lips. “But if grandfather decides to attack we act.”
Dis inclines her head, spins on her heel and marches away. Frerin turns to the throne hall, and nods at Thorin.
“Shall we watch things go from bad to worse?”
Thorin and Frerin slide silently onto the royal family’s balcony. The floor below is crowded with nobles, soldiers, jewelers, miners, and all sorts of dwarves shouting and talking among each other. Tension hangs heavily in the air, but Thror and his advisors radiate absolute confidence
“... no danger at all,” Thror declares loudly, while his closest advisor nods. Thorin looks, but Balin is suspiciously absent, while Dwalin’s face gives nothing away. Thorin catches sight of Gloin in the crowd, looking just as confused as everybody else.
“As we speak, our ally Dain brings his warriors from the Iron Hills to our aid!” Thror proclaims. “And with him we shall smash the siege, break the hobbits’ hold on the east, and Erebor will never bow to anyone again!”
Some clap, some cheer, others look uneasily to their neighbors.
“Dale will regret not having joined our cause!” Thror thunders. “When they see our banners fly, see us walk proud, while they slave under the hobbits’ yoke. And only when they beg on their knees will we consider lending them our strength!”
Ice runs down Thorin’s spine and coils in his stomach. His grandfather's words defy all the old vows of the east, make mockery of all the centuries of mutual assistance between Dale and Erebor. Next to him, Frerin hisses; below the crowd roars.
Most of them have been blinded completely by Thror’s words. Those that don't now have migrated to the back, afraid to voice their thoughts.
“What of the prisoner?” somebody shouts.
Thorin freezes.
Below, Thror’s eyes light up. “Bring him here! He should see the downfall of his peoples’ rule!”
Thorin looks to Frerin, panic surging in his veins. If they drag Bilbo here -
But Frerin shakes his head. They can't do anything. They're swept up in this madness just as everyone else is.
Bilbo has no idea how much time has passed. He cannot sleep, but his consciousness wavers. In the impenetrable darkness he is unable to fight off what tricks his mind plays on him, and the silence allows his mind to wander.
He's cold and his limbs have stiffened. Something gnaws at him; he can feel his energy fading. It feels as if it's more than the darkness and the isolation, but he can't quite put his finger to it. Only that he feels drained to the bone and all the sleep in the world can't cure him.
He wonders if Thorin will be back soon. He hopes so - he's not sure how long he can last.
Bilbo sighs to himself; the sound like thunder in the silence.
Then he perks up. Footsteps thunder down the corridor, growing louder with each passing moment. More than one person, though Bilbo can't tell who it is.
His heart wishes for Thorin. His mind warns him it might be Thror.
Then the door gets thrown open, Bilbo blinks in vain. He can't see. The voice that comes isn't Thorin’s.
“On your feet!”
Bilbo stumbles. He sways, disoriented, and abruptly hands are on him, pulling him roughly to his feet. His arms are pushed behind him before he has managed to get his bearings, and the cold metal fastens around his wrists.
An undignified noise falls from his sore throat, but the dwarves pay him no mind. They push him forward, unforgiving, and shove him along when he stumbles.
His head spins and his body struggles to even make the stairs. He coughs and gasps for air, confused and afraid, but there is nowhere to run.
All he could do is throw himself off the stairs. And he's scared, humiliated and in pain, but not ready to die yet. Seeing light again, faint as it is, and despite the pain it caused his eyes, is a blessing in itself.
And Bilbo realizes much too late he has been dragged right into the throne hall.
The crowd parts and gasps. Thorin’s fingers clench around the balcony’s stone railing as Bilbo is pushed before the throne; a diminutive figure in wrinkled black among a sea of dwarves. He sways on his feet, and Thorin’s heart shudders with worry - he wants to run down, to shout, to order this to stop, to break those chains himself.
But the crowd jeers, the guards are stone-faced, Thror grins wildly, and Frerin is frozen in his spot.
“Hobbit!” Thror booms, and Bilbo flinches, and Thorin wants to end this all, “This is where the rule of your kin ends! Erebor will shake off that yoke; we are proud and free and will not be your slaves any longer!”
“You -” Bilbo begins hoarsely.
“Silence!” Thror thunders, his mad joy blurring into simmering rage. “You had your chance to speak, all those years you had your chance to make things right, but you chose to uphold this system of coercion and slavery! You-”
“Is it custom among dwarves, then,” Bilbo says quietly, but his voice carries, “to pronounce judgement without letting the accused speak?”
Thror goes white with anger. “You -”
But the crowd has heard Bilbo. “Speak!” they begin chanting, “Speak! Plead your cause, confess your evil! Speak!”
Thorin shudders.
“We’re not looking good, are we?” Frerin asks, drily.
Though once again, Thorin finds that those shouting out may be the loudest contingent of the crowd. But not even the largest. Many linger on the fringes, watching the events play out with concern and doubt. Some have their faces hidden by long, dark cloaks, giving Thorin pause - but then Bilbo straightens as well as he can with his hands chained behind his back, his face sallow, and his clothes wrinkled.
“I am glad to see the dwarves of Erebor have not yet copied the orcish custom of sentencing their prisoners without judgement or trial,” Bilbo says, his voice cutting, and the laughter that comes up in response sounds fake and forced to Thorin’s ears.
“Yet still, here I stand, in chains and ridiculed, but no official charges have been brought forth,” Bilbo continues, his eyes bright with anger. “Nor have I received an explanation why I was summoned here, with a letter bearing the King’s seal, falsely claiming my husband was sick. Only to be arrested without charges upon my arrival.”
A titter runs through the hall, but already the jeers rise again. Thror throws up his arms. “You dare to accuse the King of lying?”
Bilbo’s expression hardens. “Yes!” he shouts over the crowd. “I accuse the King of treachery and conspiracy!”
“Kill him!” somebody shouts, and another chimes in “death! Death for those words!”
“Off with his head!”
Thorin can see Bilbo stiffen, but he holds his ground, and his heart clenches with worry, because the crowd is nearly out of control, but his grandfather doesn’t care, and only a handful of his advisors appear concerned.
Thror’s face has twisted into a caricature of himself. “You dare to take the chance given to you to spread poison?” he exclaims, “You dare to accuse the King under the Mountain of falsehood? You shall bear the punishment for those words!”
No, Thorin thinks, no!
“Kill him!”
A sword is drawn. Frerin drops something -
And then Dwalin surges forward, grabs Bilbo and pulls him out of the way. The sword cuts empty air, its wielder stumbles, but two other guards grab him. Several nobles draw their swords, guards storm onto the throne platform, and abruptly Thror himself finds a sword pointed at his throat. Its wielder is masked, clad in no recognizable armor, and Thorin’s blood runs cold.
He’s glad and scared and he doesn’t understand what is happening and he lost track of Bilbo and suddenly Frerin is no longer next to Thorin but climbing down the stairs onto the platform.
“King Thror,” he says coolly, “Grandfather.”
“You miserable whelp!” Thror explodes, “are you -”
The sword is pushed softly, but unwaveringly against the soft skin of his throat.
“Please do not speak for the time being, grandfather,” Frerin admonishes, as he makes his way to the center of the platform. Thorin blinks - Frerin’s heavy blue coat makes sense now, as it easily draws the nervous and unsettled crowd to look to him.
“King Thror has lead Erebor well for many decades,” Frerin says to the crowd, “but lately his actions have caused unease, turmoil, and nearly brought us to war with our longtime allies in this region.”
The crowd whispers among themselves, and Thorin’s back is soaked with cold sweat. This is so risky, so volatile. Just any small accidents will suffice to throw everything off balance, to completely destabilize Erebor, and he can’t believe he is watching this. Hardly dares to draw breath for the fear of disturbing this fragile equilibrium.
“For that reason I declare him no longer fit to wear the crown,” Frerin states quietly. “Erebor’s business shall continue as it has, and King Thror shall live here in all comfort and luxury the mountain can afford him. But the politics will now -”
“I will not hand over the crown!” Thror explodes, ignoring the blade pressed to his throat. If not for an advisor grabbing his arm he’d have skewered himself when surging forward. “I will not bow to your conspiracy! Dain’s nearly here, and then you will see what your actions have brought you, whelp!”
“There is no need for that,” a new voice booms and two of the cloaked figures stride forward from the main door. One draws back their hood, and Thorin recognizes his cousin - Dain’s bright red hair is unmistakable, nor is his grim frown.
And walking next to him, looking far more grieved, is Thrain.
The ground under Thorin’s feet shakes. He clutches the railing a bit tighter, his heart races, and abruptly a familiar voice next to him (and when did Dis get here?) whispers “get your husband, Thorin.”
He staggers forward, head spinning, while below Dain has approached the throne platform.
“I was surprised to read your missive,” Dain proclaims loudly. “Long have we known of your misgivings for the Shire, for slights we did not know whether they were real or imagined. In truth, this mattered little to us, for where Erebor is rich, the Iron Hills have to make do. But what concerned me, and many others, was your willingness to wage war on your oldest allies over these slights.”
Dain pauses, looking Thror into the eye. “I was wary to believe the rumors I heard. But when your own son came with not a request, but an order, for us to supply you with soldiers for your mad venture, I knew them to be true.”
“And you?” Thror bursts out, rounding on Thrain. “Has my own son betrayed me? Have you conspired with Dain when I sent you to gather support?”
Thrain bites his lip - he looks exhausted. “I wished there was another way,” he says, “but you would not listen. Reason no longer reached you, and I found my responsibility to Erebor demanded me to act.”
Dain nods, and then Thorin has reached the end of the staircase. He blindly pushes past several people - and is barely noticed. All attention is focused toward the throne, the tragic final to long weeks of misdeeds and hidden activity.
“Not only has your own letter accused you,” Dain continues loudly. “I have been presented with proof that contracts have been broken on your personal order. Contracts that protect the lives of Erebor’s people.”
Thorin stumbles, looks for Bilbo, for Dwalin, while Dain continues to speak of Thror’s actions, of his plots, and the crowd whispers in shock. Then he spots a familiar tattooed head, and with the name of his beloved on his tongue Thorin elbows his way forward.
“Bilbo,” he breathes as he sinks to the ground where Bilbo is shielded from the crowd by a small circle of guards. The hobbit breathes shallowly, curled against Dwalin, and Thorin’s heart sinks with fear.
“Is he alright?” he demands of Dwalin, not tearing his eyes from Bilbo who begins to turn around at Thorin’s voice.
Dwalin gives a short nod. “Got pushed around a bit, thought it would be better to stay down.”
Out of sight, out of mind, Thorin understands, and claps Dwalin’s shoulder to compliment his quick thinking.
“I’m alright, I suppose,” Bilbo confirms quietly. “Or as good as I can be.” He gazes up, but they can’t see anything over the heads of the guards surrounding them. Bilbo massages his wrists, which bear ugly red welts from the iron manacles.
“I’m so sorry,” Thorin bursts out. “I wish I could have done anything.” Instead he had watched, until it had almost been too late; and that guilt now twists viciously within him.
Bilbo manages a shaky twitch of his lips. His terrible pallor is a reminder of how close it had been - and behind them Thror continues to rail and rant against Frerin, Dain, and Thrain.
“We have also tracked down where the missing parts of the contracted rubies went,” Thrain announces to the crowd which falls silent for a moment.
“They were shipped to Ithilien for no price but the promise of a riot,” Thrain explains darkly. “Our treasures have been used to pay for murder and bloodshed, and by this the King has brought dishonor upon us all.”
The crowd hisses, Thorin gapes. He'd wondered, suspected in the dark recesses of his mind... but he'd not dared to think it, not dared to truly imagine -
“No!” Thror screeches wildly and the crowd erupts. “The only dishonor is in your deeds! How cowardly of you to bend your knees before the -”
“Thorin,” Dwalin interrupts shortly, “But I would recommend getting out of here.”
The guards shield them, but the entire situation remains terribly volatile, Thorin recalls abruptly, there’s no saying if the crowd won’t turn violent, if it won’t turn against Bilbo and Thorin, or who might get hurt in the confusion.
“Alright,” Thorin agrees. “Bilbo?”
“As long as it’s not back to the dungeon…” the hobbit mutters.
“My rooms,” Thorin decides and rises to his feet. He holds out a hand for Bilbo which the hobbit takes, and pulls him up. Bilbo sways a bit, and takes a deep, steadying breath that worries Thorin.
But Dwalin gives the order and the guards start moving and they finally, finally begin to leave the mess here behind. Thorin knows it will catch up with them. Unless they run to Dale now - which may not even be possible considering Erebor may still be under siege - they must face the outcome of this coup.
Thorin only hopes they will survive it.
Bilbo collapses into one of the overwrought, plush armchairs the moment Thorin lets go of him. His knees feel like jelly, his head spins, and it’s as if all the stress and troubles of the last few days are crashing down on him at once.
He doesn’t even catch Thorin call his name at first; only when a large, cool hand slips under the matted curls on his forehead he stirs.
“Bilbo?” Thorin asks softly. “How are you feeling?”
Bilbo thinks about it for a moment. “Exhausted,” is what he settles for. Empty, would be another option. Tired, overwrought, weak. As if the marrow had been sucked out of his bones and left him hollow and brittle.
Thorin purses his lips. “Then rest,” he says, “you’ll be safe here.”
Over his shoulder, Thorin tells somebody to “send for Oin”, but Bilbo’s eyes are already closing. It’s curious, he thinks before he passes out, that after having slept so much, his body still needs more sleep.
Thorin sits next to Bilbo’s resting form, uneasy and unable to relax for many hours. Oin has come, cursing about coups that leave Erebor’s main hallways overcrowded and impassable, takes one look at Bilbo and then back at Thorin.
“So that’s him?” Oin asks, marching over to the hobbit’s slumped figure. “Your husband?”
Thorin nods.
“Huh, doesn’t look all that evil,” Oin assesses, before taking Bilbo’s wrist and feeling the pulse. The hobbit doesn’t even stir, but he hadn’t reacted to Thorin covering him with a blanket either.
“He’s not,” Thorin agrees, and Oin smiles thinly.
“Rumor is he bewitched you,” Oin continues cheerfully, “but this doesn’t really feel like magic.”
“How is he?” Thorin asks, not rising to Oin’s needling.
“Mostly just exhausted,” Oin says. “I’m not too familiar with hobbits, but from his looks I’d say a few good meals and rest, and he’ll be right as rain.”
Thorin exhales in relief.
“Though,” Oin straightens, and contemplatively tugs at his beard. “I would recommend getting him out of the mountain. I doubt he’s got good memories of the place, and from what I heard hobbits prefer open skies and fresh air.”
Thorin nods. Swallows. “I will try,” he promises. “Though with the siege…”
“Eh,” Oin shrugs. “If Dain’s here, I don’t think we’re under siege anymore.”
Thorin blinks. Of course. If Thrain and Dain and Dain’s soldiers got into the mountain, somebody must have let them in. He should have figured that out by himself.
Oin claps his shoulders and draws him from his thoughts. “Talk to Bard, I doubt he’ll protest hosting a hobbit somewhere in Dale, and I don’t think he’d mind you there either.”
Thorin is loath to leave Erebor in this time of confusion. The day of the coup ended without bloodshed, yet the air feels charged. Thror remains in his rooms, under guard, and Thrain refused the crown. Which makes sense for few are likely to trust Thrain as he took part in the coup.
On the other hand this leaves Erebor without a King.
Thorin ignores the issues during the next day. The market is abuzz with rumors and talk, but from what Thorin can see all works as usual. Erebor’s gates have opened again, and though hesitant, a few traders from Dale are entering.
Thorin heads out to Dale, still crowded with elves and men, and after some bartering and shouting is allowed to speak to a much harried King Bard. The man is sympathetic to Thorin’s cause.
“You are both very welcome,” Bard says, “but are you not staying in Erebor? I heard Thrain refused the crown, so would not you be next in line?”
Thorin stills. He? King under the Mountain? This feels like an echo from another world; distant and strange, and foreign. And what right has he? He lives in the Shire now; had no idea of the ongoings within Erebor. His siblings and father were the driving forces behind the coup that saved them all - so how could he take up the crown.
“I do not know,” Thorin replies honestly.
Bard smiles tiredly. “Good luck figuring it all out.”
Confusion lingers for days after the coup. Thranduil remains reluctant to withdraw his force, so Dale nowadays is crowded by elvish visitors and dwarven guests. The traders from the Lonely Mountain return, but despite a faint unease all find their business returning smoothly.
“Unsurprising,” Dis comments when Thorin tells her of his observations while Bilbo sits in council with Bard and Thranduil. “Those traders were the ones to support grandfather’s politics in the least. His staunch supporters haven’t left the mountain.”
Thorin takes a sip of his ale. “Haven’t they been apprehended?”
Dis sighs. “Only the ones who were involved with the falsification of the trade agreement,” she replies. “Simply supporting the wrong politics isn’t cause enough to imprison anybody. And you’d be surprised how fast some have been to claim they only went along because they had been intimidated.”
Thorin sighs. “Not very surprising at all, then.”
“Indeed,” Dis agrees, and then shrugs. “But for now they’ll be silent. They have seen that their ideas have little support and even fewer chances at being realized. So they will have to adapt to the reality that is Erebor or leave.”
Thorin can imagine his sister waving those people a cheerful goodbye all too well. He finds his lips twitching, before a more sobering thought comes to him. “What about grandfather?”
“Unchanged. Well, he has stopped ranting, but he still fails to see how his plot might have failed or been unwelcome,” Dis says. “I have written Gandalf in case an enchantment is at fault, but -” She trails off with a shake of her head.
“You think it’s his mind,” Thorin concludes, and his sister nods.
Silence envelopes them for a while. That the line of Durin is prone to sickness of the mind has long been known, and should come as no surprise. Still, it pains Thorin to think that the grandfather he grew up with should be lost for good.
“Maybe,” he begins tentatively, “at some point, when all this has been settled… I could ask Bilbo?”
“Do the hobbits also have cures for obscure illnesses that befall only dwarves?”
“I doubt it, but their allies might,” Thorin replies.
“The elves.” Dis wrinkles her nose. “They won’t help us.”
Thorin shrugs. “Not us. But should the hobbits ask…” He glances down at his cup to find it empty. Perhaps the time for him to leave has come.
When he looks up Dis smiles at him. “That’s not a terrible idea, Thorin. Keep it in mind, and should that calmer day come, remind me.”
Thorin nods and stands to say his goodbye. Outside the sun has begun to set, and he makes the short trip to Dale in a rather good mood. Dwarves and men greet him, some with cheer, others with more reluctance.
But the air, to Thorin, feels clear and peaceful, as if a new beginning lies ahead of them.
“Hello cousin,” Dain greets from where he is seated on Thorin’s chair at the table in Bilbo’s and Thorin’s temporary house in Dale. His feet (like Thorin’s) dangle above the ground and he rather contently nurses a pint of ale.
“Dain,” Thorin greets, momentarily bewildered. Then he notices the relaxed atmosphere and sees that Bilbo’s pose bears hardly a trace of tension, so whatever brought Dain here can't have been too bad. Still, “what brings you here?”
“Getting to know the extended family,” Dain cheerfully replies and lift his pint in a toast. Bilbo grins at that, and nods along.
“And I must say I think it all turned out rather well in the end,” Dain concludes and takes a long swig of his ale.
“We were discussing possible trade between the Iron Hills and the Shire,” Bilbo pipes up and waves at Thorin to take a chair as well.
“But that's even farther than Erebor,” Thorin replies, puzzled, while he levers himself up on the too-tall furniture.
“Only from the Shire,” Bilbo says. “It's not so far from Gondor or Rhûn, and I know they have a demand for iron crafts even further south.”
Dain nods. “Mister Baggins here said he'd speak to that cousin of his that oversees the Gondorian trade - they'd help setting up the Iron Hills as a gateway for trade with Rhûn and the lands beyond.”
Which would immensely expand the hobbits’ influence, Thorin thinks, and a shadow of that old unease rolls in his chest.
“Does the Shire have an interest in that?” Thorin asks.
Bilbo shrugs. “Some of us do, probably. But in all honesty, I do not know how well Shire farming practices will do in the east anyway. Also,” He puts down his mug, expression turning serious. “Trade agreements for the east need to be reviewed and renewed in general. The Shire does undervalue your gems and jewels,” Bilbo casts a wry smile at Thorin who stares in surprise. “So we were discussion alternative options. Apparently they have some sort of equity trade down in Khand that might be useful.”
Thorin blinks and looks to Dain who lifts his mug in a smug, silent cheer.
“But will the other hobbits allow that?” Thorin asks, flabbergasted.
Bilbo shrugs. “As long as it gets them more foreign delicacies, I think they can be convinced.”
“I shall relay your suggestions to my council,” Dain cheerfully announces and slides from his chair, “and leave you two alone for the night.”
Of course he waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Later, when the sun has set outside and the noises died down, Bilbo and Thorin sits in comfortable silence in one of the houses’ sitting rooms. Bilbo curled up in an oversized armchair with a book, Thorin with his feet up and whittling.
“Say Thorin,” Bilbo begins after a while, “what will happen to Erebor? I asked Dain earlier but he could not say - only that due to their involvement with the coup your father and brother are likely to face severe resistance should they desire to take the crown.”
Thorin sighs and sets the tiny figurine down. “That is true,” he confirms. “There hasn't been a coup in dwarven history for many years, and it is not kindly looked upon.”
Bilbo purses his lips. “Which would make you a good choice, would it not? You have not been involved with the coup, and you have been trained for the position.”
“That … yes,” Thorin reluctantly agrees. “But I gave up that claim when I married you.”
Bilbo lets his book sink and turns to look to the window. His brows furrow with heavy thoughts. “It was never my intention to deprive you of the crown. I doubt it was anybody’s intention -”
“I know, Bilbo,” Thorin interrupts gently. “It was done so I would survive. I see that now.” Having Dale and the Greenwood ready to go to war over an imprisoned hobbit had shown again what may have happened to Thorin had the slight he committed have become widely known.
Bilbo smiles tiredly. “I think that danger has now passed. Recent events have …
changed things, and should you wish to take the crown, I doubt you would have to fear any misgivings.”
Thorin swallows. His heart clenches with the old desire for Erebor and aches at the memories of the Shire.
“And if I stayed, what would you do?”
Bilbo glances down at his hands - still a little pale from his unfortunate dungeon stay. “I need to return to the Shire. Perhaps in a few years I could train -” He stops himself with a shake of the head.
“Actually, I was meaning to speak to you on this, Thorin,” he begins and Thorin can't tear his eyes away and his heart speeds up. “While things have changed since, our marriage initially was arranged to serve a means. That means has now been fulfilled, and while I … I won't deny having grown affections for you, I do understand if you would rather separate.”
Thorin is left gaping, and the pain in Bilbo’s posture is heart-wrenching. He wants to reach out, embrace him, but sits frozen in place as Bilbo continues.
“It was never my intention to trap you in a loveless marriage, and I know how sacred dwarves hold this union,” Bilbo says, his voice hitching, “and with the crown here waiting for you, I believe -”
Thorin surges forward. Throws his arms around Bilbo and draws him against his chest, ignoring the discomfort of an elbow pressed against his ribcage or that knee digging into his thigh.
“Bilbo,” Thorin murmurs and hides his burning eyes in Bilbo’s curls, “I… I’m not going to leave you. At least, not unless you want me to.”
Thorin swallows down the knot in his throat and pulls back to look at Bilbo’s face. His hobbit’s eyes are just as red-rimmed as his own, and Thorin finds his lips twitch.
“You spoke of what I want, but what about you? You were brought into this marriage against your own will as well, and for even lesser gain than I was.”
Bilbo shakes his head. “It doesn't matter.”
Thorin tightens his grip on him. “But it does. If you give me the choice, Bilbo, then I would never part from you again. I have fallen in love and I don't intend to ever stop loving you, but I will not force you to stay at my side of that is not what you want.”
Bilbo gulps and hands come up to bury themselves in Thorin’s hair. “I wouldn't part from you either, if that is your desire.”
“It is.”
A smile ghosts over Bilbo’s features. “Alas, we still have to puzzle out how to achieve that. If you take the crown -”
Thorin shakes his head. “I don’t think I will. I was trained for it, yes. But then there never was an option and having lived through this intrigue now, I do not believe I am cut out to deal with court conspiracies and politics. I was trained to take the crown, but I don't desire it.”
“But who then…”
Thorin smiles. “While I think either my father or my brother would do a great job, in light of recent events I would think my sister will make a promising contender.”
Bilbo's eyes widen. “Your sister?”
“Aye. Erebor has never had a Queen as its regent, but I think it’s time to consider that.” Dis will be delighted, Thorin thinks, and thrive in the role. She had already terrified half the council and long been known as one of the most influential members of the Royal family - the transition would be easy.
Bilbo blinks. “Well, alright. What will you do then? Advise her?”
“As well as I can,” Thorin replies and rests his head stop Bilbo’s once more. “But I was actually planning to return to the Shire.”
Bilbo’s eyes widen. “You…”
“I love you, Bilbo,” Thorin says. “And I would stay with you as long as you want me to.”
Bilbo makes an odd noise in the back of his throat, then his arms tighten around Thorin. “Then Bag End will be your home, too, Thorin. Because I love you as well.”
His siblings take the news of Thorin’s impending departure surprisingly well. Thrain sighs and levels a sad smile at his son. “I've only seen you for such a short time,” he laments.
“I know,” Thorin says, and it does make him sad.
Thrain shakes his head. “Don't worry, my boy. For what it's worth, I am glad things turned out as they did - I had been terrified when we had to leave you in the Shire.”
“It's not such a terrible place,” Thorin mumbles.
Thrain smiles. “Maybe you could show me?” He suggests, and Thorin perks up at that.
“I won't become King under the Mountain,” Thrain declares. “But everybody seems to think that would make me the ideal diplomatic envoy.”
“You dealt with Dain beautifully,” Frerin calls over as he steps through the door. He throws down a large map of documents on the table and sighs.
“It's all agreed on,” Frerin declares. “Dis will become King under the Mountain. The last council members finally relented.”
Thrain smiles. “She'll do a great job,” he says. Then a shadow passes his face. “I’m only sorry this came at the price of your own chance, Frerin. You would have made a fair and good ruler, I am certain.”
Frerin shrugs and helps himself to an apple from the fruit bowl sitting on the table. “I wouldn't know about that,” he says. “I’d rather prefer being the bad sheep, but now that Thorin’s gone and eloped with a hobbit, that role is taken.”
Thorin laughs. “You’ll have to be the responsible sibling then.”
Dis’ coronation is a grand ceremony. King Bard and King Thranduil and several of their dignitaries are present and seated on richly decorated balconies. Bilbo sits with Thorin on the balcony reserved for the royal family, both clad in matching cloaks that are a magic feat conducted by the Royal tailors.
Below Dis walks toward the crown, her steps measured and proud. She radiates confidence in her diamond-studded blue cloak and armor underneath.
He's glad she is the one to take these steps, Thorin thinks. If he is honest with himself, he has never been too suited to the political intricacies of ruling. He had been taught well, certainly, but so had Dis and out of all of them she possesses the greatest aptitude.
She will lead Erebor to new centuries of glory and prosperity.
Thror’s absence is perhaps the only thing to dim the ceremony’s grand spectacle. But he's in no shape for company - he does not rave anymore, but his words have lost all sense and reason, and the elves have agreed to dispatch a mind healer.
Below, Dis puts the crown on her own head. It's a symbolic gesture - she has won this crown on her own power, and by her own power she will rule.
Then she turns to the amassed dwarves and guests. “Dwarves of Erebor, Lords and Ladies, Kings and Kin from near and far,” she proclaims loudly, her voice fierce and unshaken in the large hall. “From this day forward to the day Mahal has ordained I shall wear this crown. In my deeds I promise to serve the good and prosperity, her subjects, her neighbors, and her friends.”
A smile pulls on Thorin’s face.
“She’s changed the words a bit,” Frerin cheerfully whispers to Bilbo who raises an eyebrow. Below Dis continues her adjusted version of the old vows to the rapt attention of all who listen - the coronation words have not changed for centuries, yet these words fit better.
“And whence the day comes, I shall pass the crown to the next of my line,” Dis says and Fili - after a deep, fortifying breath - steps forward. The crowd ohs and ahs, and Frerin leans forward.
“Did we look that pale, too?” he asks of Thorin. Bilbo blinks at him, and Thorin very dimly remembers another ceremony, a long time ago, when Thror had officially announced the line of succession. He’d been but a little older than Fili, and Frerin younger than Kili.
“You’d gotten blueberry stains on your tunic,” Thorin recalls abruptly.
“So had Dis,” Frerin protests, while Bilbo covers his mouth to keep from giggling. “And you didn’t have stains, but your fingers were so blue people wondered for weeks what had happened. Didn’t Balin end up making up some story about you having had an accident in the forge?”
“As if-”
“Shush,” Bilbo interrupts them, eyes sparkling with mirth, “let your sister have this moment.”
She’s been having her moment for a while now, Thorin wants to protest. And looking down at Fili and Kili - rather pale at being cast in the spotlight so abruptly - he thinks they wouldn’t mind a distraction either. But he understands what Bilbo means, and so does Frerin. They lean back against the comfortable pillows that line their seats, and watch the remaining ceremony in silence.
When Dis finishes her refreshingly short speech, the hall erupts in frantic cheering and applause. The noise drones out the music, and Thorin can’t help but think that Dis’ words truly moved the crowd. Perhaps after years of formulaic repetitions of ancient vows that did not bring about any change, even the traditional dwarves of Erebor are ready for something new.
He rises with a smile while below Dis makes her exit, flanked by her nephews and advisors. Frerin, Bilbo, and him join them in one of the hall’s adjoining meeting rooms which buzzes with cheerful congratulations and chatter.
“An amazing speech,” Bilbo comments when he finally has elbowed his way to Dis’ side, “and a beautiful ceremony. Congratulations, your highness.” He bows (a gesture the assembled nobles certainly don’t miss) and Dis smiles, her eyes gleaming with calculation.
“Thank you, brother in law, and I do hope we can discuss a few of my ideas in the near future,” she says, and Bilbo’s eye light up as well.
“I would love to,” he replies, and then elegantly makes space for the next person waiting to congratulate the new King under the Mountain.
“They make a rather frightening combination,” Frerin whispers next to Thorin, making him jump. “I guess we should consider ourselves lucky it wasn’t Dis who accompanied father on that trip.”
Thorin opens his mouth to protest, only to find he has nothing to say. Of course, Dis would never have made the diplomatic faux pas that resulted in an arranged marriage. But Dis and Bilbo together would by now probably rule all the way from Eriador to Harad.
“What are you two talking about?” Bilbo asks as he reaches their side again.
Frerin shrugs. “Just thinking about what-ifs. You know, if instead of Thorin Dis or I had gone to that meeting.”
“Oh,” Bilbo turns contemplative. Then his lips curl. “Well, I have to admit I’m rather glad it was Thorin in the end.”
It's a beautiful summer day when Thorin and Bilbo depart Erebor. The sun has just risen above the horizon, lighting the world in a fresh, golden glow. Dew dots the grass and lush pines trees, the laden ponies swish their tails and impatiently stir their hooves.
The traders stop on their way to watch the rare sight of the entire royal family gathered outside of the throne hall. Dis embraces her brother, who is clad in a dashing travel cloak that matches the one of his hobbit husband.
Said hobbit watches the tearful goodbyes with a smile, before Frerin walks up to him and wished him a safe trip and patience with his brother.
Bilbo laughs and some of the dwarves watching being to wonder. All those long years they heard terrible tales of hobbit, but this one does look pleasant. He's also married a dwarf, so maybe hobbits aren't all that bad and hate dwarves either.
Little do they know that among Bilbo’s luggage rests a new trade proposal he outlined with Dis, Balin, Bard, and many others. Not all in the Shire may agree, but Bilbo is confident he will get it approved, and future trade between the Shire and Erebor will be facilitated.
“The only thing I wonder about,” Bilbo says as he and Thorin begin their long journey, “is whether any of mine or your grandfather’s letters ever reached the Shire. We never heard back from them, did we?”
Thorin gulps. “No.”
“Well,” Bilbo shrugs lightly. “We will find out, I suppose.”
So they turn their backs onto Erebor’s snow-covered slopes, pass the open gates of Dale and the glittering waters of the Long Lake before reaching the old elven road through the Greenwood.
Thranduil sends his son out to greet and escort them, and despite all his misgivings they’re almost sad to part at the borders of the woods. Beyond green hills, the Misty Mountains rise steeply.
Crossing them again does not constitute Bilbo’s favorite part of the journey - but he doesn't mind that he can cuddle up to Thorin underneath the blanket on the higher, cooler slopes.
They pass Rivendell, traverse the wilder lands, and soon the landscape gentles and grows familiar. Bilbo smiles, for he is glad to be home again, and Thorin, too, relaxes in the saddle.
Bilbo Baggins and Thorin Oakenshield reach Hobbiton just a fortnight shy of Bilbo’s birthday and cause a minor scandal by interrupting a vicious and ongoing debate on Bilbo’s fate and subsequent actions.
A faction lead by Bilbo’s more odious relatives has been campaigning to declare Bilbo dead as per the letter from Erebor, seize his estate, and embargo Erebor, Ithilien and all other dwarves utterly and completely.
A less odious and more pragmatic (or greedy) faction had seconded the embargo but had also wanted to wage war on the Lonely Mountain in order to seize their possessions (and possibly Bilbo in case he happened to survive).
The moderate faction had pleaded for negotiations, while the rest of the Shire had pointed to Bilbo’s own letter, received a few days after the first missive and wondered what there was to argue about.
“Ach, it was a good opportunity to shout and stomp for a bit,” Primula Brandybuck, on visit to Hobbiton with her family, relays. “You wouldn't believe, but Lobelia made joint cause with us. Said she’d love to send a battalion of orcs your way after it became clear she wouldn’t get to send them to Ithilien. No offence, Mister Thorin.”
Her skin has darkened from the southern sun - unlike her husband who still looks slightly red where he plays some foreign game with a Frodo who seems to have inherited his ability to withstand the sun from his mother.
Thorin shrugs and takes a sip of the cool fruit juice that sits on the table while the sun beats down on them. The summer heat yet lingers, and he has exchanged his leathers and furs for delicate silks and linens.
“She’d have literally sent them my way,” Bilbo clarifies with a shudder, and Thorin finds that despite the terrible memories his lips can still twitch.
“Eh, it's how they express affection, I heard,” Primula says and fans herself with her head. “Anyway, it's great you came back before we ended up writing to Mordor or the Wizards or somesuchthing.”
Thorin keeps sipping his juice. He will, he thinks to himself, simply have to get used to this kind of talk. In Erebor they’d made grand declarations in grand halls, the hobbits plot the end of the world over cool drinks on picnic blankets while wearing straw hats.
“Grandfather would not have allowed it,” Bilbo hedges, and turns his head to the sun. He's regained the color he lost in Erebor’s dungeon during their journey home, and Thorin thinks he’s never looked better. Instead of black Bilbo now wears blues and greens and yellows.
Primula tilts her head. “He was rather distraught,” she says. “I doubt he'd have written himself, but he would not have stopped anybody else either.”
Bilbo closes his eyes. “He shouldn't. Such a letter might have caused devastation.”
“Well,” Primula’s lips pull down. “We do need to look out for ourselves, don’t we? And it’s not as if the Shire had any weapons, or magic, or army - our allies and their goodwill are all that defends us.”
Bilbo says nothing.
Thorin remembers thinking the hobbits magical, evil, and powerful. Those notions seem to hail from another lifetime.
“It’s goodwill paired with fear,” Thorin says. “When Bilbo was imprisoned, Dale and the Greenwood laid siege to Erebor within a day. They feared for their food supply, and I know so do many others.”
“Which is also why some think us tyrants,” Bilbo adds quietly.
Thorin cringes and Primula’s lips twitch. “That new contract you presented is addressing that, isn't it? An equity trade?”
Bilbo smiles sharply in return. “I heard it works for Khand, and they trade with countries we've never heard of.”
“Not everybody's going to like letting go of that power,” Primula replies.
“Would folks in Ithilien like it?” Bilbo asks, and Thorin's eyebrows shoot up. Primula finished her mission to the south quite quickly - her results further implicating Erebor but also absolving Gondor itself from the blame.
“I feel they'll love it much more in theory than in practice,” she replies. “Their soil is difficult, and they'll need a far reach to sell at a good price.”
“So integrating with other trade networks would help them?” Thorin asks.
Bilbo sighs and shrugs. “From the looks of it, yes. But we have no idea of the possible pitfalls and challenges. The equity trade we’re proposing for the east is something very new - who knows how it will actually play out.”
“But for now I know I’d rather have some more of that raspberry pie,” Bilbo adds and with a smile Thorin reaches forward and cuts another piece off the delicious cake.
Who knows what the future holds.
But sitting in the warm late summer sun at his beloved’s side, knowing his family and friends safe and happy, knowing they have plans and precautions and safeguards, Thorin allows the worries that have plagued him for so long to slip away.
They will do what they can to make things better. And enjoy their lives while they can.
The End