Chapter Text
Thorin stood along the fortified walls of Erebor, his home, as the midnight sky twinkled above him. A clear, full moon is an auspicious sign, he thought, but under whose favor does it shine?
He had decided to take watch along the wall that whole night—he did not trust the others, and it was not as if he would be able to sleep, anyway. Thorin was pacing incessantly, reflecting on his previous conversation with his Hobbit. The acorn. He had carried it all the way from Beorn’s garden. Bilbo had no want for the treasure of Erebor, or any other material riches; no, he wished only for life to flourish where so many others saw only death and ruin. He thought of Bilbo’s gentle face, his pleasant disposition, Thorin so highly regarded, and for a moment, all was clear.
That did not last long, however. His mind then flooded with the traumas of his people. Thrain and Thror, his forefathers, were slain by the Orc Azog. He remembered the traitorous face of Thranduil, cowardly King of the Mirkwood Elves, who turned his back on the Dwarves during their hour of need. Why should he sacrifice what they had worked so hard to reclaim, what the prophecies foretold?
The acorn.
Why did this object have such a hold on him? Thorin wished for his Hobbit to be at his side, wise and forgiving as he was. It did not take long for his wish to be granted, as Bilbo walked outside with a steaming bowl of stew in hand.
“Thorin,” he eked out, keeping his distance, “I’ve brought you dinner. Would you please eat?”
But the Dwarf did not cease in his pacing. “I do not wish to eat,” he spat out.
Bilbo was not having it anymore. He stepped forward, stopping Thorin in his path. “It does not concern me, frankly, whether you wish to eat or not,” he shoved the bowl into the other’s arms, “because I am not leaving until you do. You cannot think you will win any sort of war if you are mad from starvation, Thorin Oakenshield!”
He did little more than grumble before taking a bite, for fear of Bilbo’s death stare. He did not realize his hunger until the first bite of rich, savory broth hit his lips, and he quickly devoured the whole portion.
“My thanks, Master Baggins.” A soft smile rose on his face, and Bilbo nodded before taking the bowl and retreating back into the mountain. Thorin was in better spirits now, and as a cold midnight wind set in, he made a small fire to sit at. His Hobbit returned shortly after, this time with two mugs of ale in hand, and joined him.
The pair sat for a time, admiring the stars above them. It was Bilbo who spoke first.
“Balin was crying, you know. He loves you so dearly.” Thorin turned to look at Bilbo, who was still looking up at the stars. “The others, too. We all fight for you... Even when it is wrong.”
Thorin had no response to this.
-----
As the sharp chill of late-autumn hung in the air, and the fire dwindled to its last few molten droplets, Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins found themselves truly alone for the first time in a long while, for all the others had gone to bed long ago. Thorin knew he had to speak, but how could he convey the sheer weight of all that lay on his shoulders, or the darkness that wrapped itself around his heart? It was all too much for him. Bilbo stood up from the ashen remnants of their fire, but a heavy hand pulled him back down. He began to speak in a low, dangerous tone, through a snarl:
“Khazad-Dum, Erebor. Once mighty kingdoms and great houses ruled there, Master Baggins. Kingdoms were reduced to nothing more than smoke and ash, over nothing more than the arrogant greed of mortals. And now, as I walk these blood-stained halls once more, they wish to trample upon the bones of my ancestors again! I am not dragon-sick, nor am I mad. The power of Smaug, that cursed fire-drake, does not hold a candle to the misery of one who walks in a world not meant for him. I do not wish to be a Prince of the Desert any longer, wandering the lands, bowing to lesser men.”
He stood up, fists clenched, and faced the barrens that lay before him as he began to weep. Waves came crashing over Thorin then, and thick, salty tears carved rivers down his toughened skin. Bilbo stood to meet him, laying a gentle hand on Thorin’s back as he wept, but he shrugged it off.
“Do not touch me, Hobbit,” he growled, “for fear you might catch the curse of the Durins as well! You should leave me now, return to Bag-End, or anywhere far away, before it is too late. All of this...” he gestured around, “It is not meant for such a delicate creature as yourself.”
Bilbo grabbed him again, firmer this time, turning him around. “Listen to me,” he whispered, caressing a small hand to his face, wiping away tears, “I do not pretend to know the challenges you face. But know this, Thorin Oakenshield. For as long as I may live, I will never leave your side. Never. I know what I signed up for. I have found a worthy cause in you, don’t you understand this yet?”
Thorin met the Hobbit’s eyes. Deep mahogany gleamed at him, and cornflower blue stared back. He placed his own calloused hand over Bilbo’s.
“Master Burglar,” he choked out, squeezing his hand, “you are a brave little Hobbit, and a Fool of one. I will never give up on this quest.”
Bilbo nodded. “I know.”
-----
Thorin stepped back to resume his watch at the wall, content with Bilbo’s presence. He was a radiant being standing there, moonlight softening the coarse mane that flowed down his back, raven-black with shocks of grey; a reminder of his many aged years. The edge of his furs dissipated into a misty aura around him, and all at once, he saw the King for all he truly was. Bilbo Baggins had but one thought as he stood there:
‘I am going to kill that damned Orc if it is with my last dying breath.’
Trusting him was a different question, however. Bilbo still felt the sharp edge of the Orcrist, cold and menacing against his chest, and how easily Thorin had threatened him; the image of cold, unfeeling eyes was fresh in his mind. But then Bilbo pictured him again, beaten and bloodied on the battlefield, surrounded by his fallen kinsmen. He saw severed heads and smelled the thick iron pools of blood soaking into the soft earth. Thorin was no Dwarf consumed by great greed or madness. He was a victim, a child ravaged by war, a prince relegated to serving others, and one who would martyr himself in an instant, all for the survival of his people. These Dwarves of the mountain, whom Bilbo had gotten to know so well, even call family... They had no homeland, no claim to their part in history, and it sickened him to think of it. Before Bilbo knew it, he dropped his head and began to cry as well. Hot tears forced themselves out as he thought of the deep pain and suffering of the Dwarves.
Thorin had become aware of the sniffling Hobbit, and a look of concern befell his face. “What has consumed you, dear Master Baggins?” His own voice was shaking in alarm. “Have you been harmed?”
“No, no, it is nothing of the sort. I am fine, Thorin.” He took a moment to wipe his glistening face, giving a slight chuckle.
“Good. I could not bear to lose my Burglar.” He was staring directly into Bilbo’s eyes with a strange look, unknown to the Hobbit.
Bilbo sat there for a moment, struggling to phrase what he had wanted to say next. A slight wind picked up, blowing away the remaining ashes of the fire. “It’s just...”
“Just what?”
“I could not bear to lose you either.”
A blush crept onto Bilbo’s face as he spoke, and that deep pit in Thorin’s heart grew warmer.
-----
They decided to finish out the night watch together, since neither could bear to sleep. It was in the early morning, when the dusk began to crawl into the sky, that Bilbo revealed his final secret.
“Now, Thorin, you must not be angry with me. You were in the throes of dragon-sickness; this would only have served to weaken you further.” He pulled an object from his bag and handed it to the King. “I was protecting you.”
It was a small bundle of cloth that fit into Thorin’s hand perfectly. He knew what it was before it was even opened—its heavy weight made it obvious. Still, he gently lifted the fabric to check. He was transfixed on the glimmering relic for just a moment before covering it back up and shoving it back into Bilbo’s arms.
“That Arkenstone,” he hissed, venom spilling from his voice, “is a blight on my House. It is a dangerous relic of fear and greed.”
A proud look overtook Bilbo’s face as he gingerly laid the thing back into his bag. “I was hoping you would say that. Now you know what you must do, Thorin. Bard the Bowman is almost certainly going to attempt to barter for peace, and when he does, you must align yourselves with him and Thranduil. You know...” He placed his hand on strong arms as he attempted to do right by his words.
“They do not deserve your help. But you must, anyway. Give Thranduil the White Gems of Lasgalen, let the Men of Dale rebuild their homes. Rid that mountain of its cursed gold, and lead your people into greatness again, as they once did. I know the loyalty and bravery of the Dwarves; I only wish everyone else could, too.”
Thorin grunted in agreement. “So be it,” he said, staring out at the vast plains before him, “but let them come to us. We shall have peace, so I may see the sons of Durin once again rule. As always, Master Baggins, your counsel is fair and just. I do not know where I would be without you.”
“Probably still in the dungeons of Mirkwood!” Bilbo giggled, and Thorin, too, laughed in response. It was a mighty roar of a laugh, booming from deep within him.
It was as expected. Not long after their conversation, Bard the Bowman appeared on horseback, frenzied and wild. They spoke in hushed, rapid tones before he promptly rode back off again. It did not take long for him to return, this time with Thranduil and Gandalf the Grey in tow. Fili and Kili stood by their uncle as they lowered a ladder for the group to climb up and meet them. Bags of jewels sat at their feet, tied up in dark leather satchels.
“Thranduil,” Thorin addressed him, “I am glad you’ve come. As promised, the gems of your people.” He slid one of the bags over to the Elven King. “Bard,” he slid another one, “consider this a first payment, for the reconstruction of your home,” Thorin spoke with no love in his voice, but no venom, either.
Thranduil took the bag carefully, inspecting its contents, and his mouth dropped at the sight of the relics of his people. “Thorin-- King of Erebor. I should like to see your people rule once again. I was a coward before, all those years ago. Had I helped you then, we might be in a different place today.” He dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “It will forever be my greatest regret, and a debt I seek to repay. Let me start by saying this: We shall fight by your side now, brave King under the Mountain. My legions are on their way over as we speak; let us rid ourselves of those Orcs and Goblins once and for all.” A fire lit in his eyes as he thought of the Orcs, those evil things who had slain his beloved so many years ago.
Bard nodded, moved by the Elf King’s gesture of humility, before dropping to his knees as well. “I never doubted your loyalty, Thorin, son of Thror, and know the Men of Laketown and Dale shall forever be your allies.”
Gandalf did not bow, but he did shine a wizened smile onto his old friend, patting his back. “See, you never needed the Arkenstone, Thorin,” he said, “to be a true King. No one would question your right to rule.”
“Actually...” Bilbo reached into his bag and pulled out the opulent stone, casting a soft glow onto him. “I found the Arkenstone during that first encounter with Smaug. And you know what? Thorin has known about it for some time now. It has no hold on him, not anymore.”
He looked up to the kingly Dwarf and handed him the stone before continuing.
“Torin Oakenshield,” he declared, “was never mad. He was traumatized, sunk into pits of darkness by his circumstances. He did not need to do this, give you pieces of his birthright, compromise yet again for the survival of his people. But he did, anyway. He is the son of a great clan of Dwarves, one that will rise again from the ashes of war and despair! Do it, Thorin!”
And, with great gusto, Thorin hurled the rock to the earth below him, where it shattered into countless pieces.
-----
Thorin was in the depths of the battlefield. Dain II Ironfoot had joined them at the start of their battle, providing an extra flank of Dwarven support when they had so desperately needed it. All around him, the company was fighting diligently: Bifur had his pickaxe and Bofur his halbard, Dwalin, who swung his mighty axe, felling two or three Orcs at a time. Kili and Fili, the brotherly Princes, stood side-by-side as they cleared a path towards their greatest enemy-- Azog, the Defiler. Bilbo, protected in the feather-light Mithril Thorin had so lovingly gifted him, felt invincible as he wielded Sting, a sword that had become beloved to him over time. As they closed in on their prey, Bilbo thought back on the conversation the two had right before the onslaught of war.
-----
The two were alone in the Armory, and Bilbo was helping Thorin put on his armor. It was beautiful, shining silver and blue, the colors of House Durin, crafted masterfully by his Dwarven ancestors. As Thorin adjusted the chestplate to fit him properly, Bilbo stood on the tips of his toes and gently pulled thick locks of hair out from inside it.
“Bilbo.” Thorin dared not turn around, for he could not stand to look at the Hobbit in that moment.
“Hm?” Bilbo let out softly in response. His hands were busy adjusting the plated metal armor to cover his large, muscled back.
“You must go home... Back to the Shire, I mean.”
“Wh...” He stopped his movements, hands now frozen. “What on earth do you mean, Thorin?” A deep hurt began to infest his gut.
Thorin turned around now, quickly, causing Bilbo to stumble back. His face was cut deep with worry, and he spoke in a wavering tone. “I told you once I cannot bear to lose you, and it is more true now than ever. I cannot see you killed on that battlefield, Master Baggins. I do not think I could live with myself.”
Bilbo Baggins was angry now. He stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and the Dwarven King opposite him. “And I told you,” he pushed a finger against his chest, “that I would never leave you. Why can you not accept that, Thorin?” his own voice trembled now as he spoke, “Why is it so difficult for you to accept my--”
“Accept your what?” Thorin looked down at the Hobbit, who was red as a tomato.
“My... loyalty. I signed a contract, and don’t you forget it. I may be just a Hobbit, but I swear, I will protect you with my life, and fight with you until the end.”
Thorin took a second to digest Bilbo’s statement, and the piercing stare of his eyes softened. “Fine,” he whispered. “But if anything--anything happens to me, do not be a hero. I want you to retreat and find safety.” Bilbo nodded and took a seat on the armory bench, exhausted from the weight of his heavy emotions. Thorin joined him, and they sat there in silence. Before they knew it, they had dozed off, Bilbo snoring softly, and Thorin’s hair creating a veil over their slumbering faces.
-----
The Company of Thorin Oakshield had hacked and slashed their way to the middle of the battlefield and were creating a layer of defense, staving off Wargs as Thorin came face-to-face with whom he loathed most in the world.
“Azog the Defiler!” he cried out, pointing his sword at the Warg-bound Orc. “Face me, wretched beast!” He was in his most true form, covered in the blood of his enemies, a fire roaring in his soul. “Face the heir of Durin once again, and feel my wrath!”
Azog turned around, a menacing smirk plastered on his face. “Well, well,” he purred, coming closer now to the Dwarf. “If it isn’t the dragon-mad son of the Dwarves.” A vicious look glinted in his eyes as he spoke. “You have finally come to face your death?”
All of his allies were at Thorin’s side, fighting the surrounding enemies: Oin, Gloin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Dwalin, Nori, Dori, Ori; his two believed nephews, Bilbo Baggins, and Gandalf the Grey. Thranduil atop his mighty Elk, Bard the Bowman steady on his horse; Tauriel, the Elf Maiden, and Legolas, the Prince. He saw Dain Ironfoot bashing the skulls of two Orcs against one another as he screamed in delight. These were his friends, his loved ones, the loyal allies of the line of Durin. All at once, Thorin felt his strength flowing through his veins like a mighty river, and Azog looked smaller than ever. He summoned every ounce of his newfound power and charged the Orc, a mighty battle-roar escaping him.
It was no easy fight. Even with the renewed strength he had, Azog was still an even match for him. Thorin would get in a swipe of the arm, and Azog would nick his leg. One of them toppled on top of the other, they wrestled, and finished on even ground. Their stamina was wearing thin at this point, and both of them were breathing heavy as they took turns hitting one another. Then, it happened. Thorin stumbled, and Azog took his chance. He pinned the King down in his weakened state, holding his sword right at his neck.
“Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror,” he sneered, leaning in close to the bloodied Dwarf, “it was so naive of you to think you could ever best me after your first failed attempt. You Dwarves are foolish and weak. Now, feel the sweet release of death.”
He raised his arm high, intending to bring the blade right across Thorin’s neck. The air froze, stale in the King of Erebor’s throat, and his eyes widened.
Crunch.
Bilbo stood behind Azog, a mighty glow shining on him from the late-afternoon sun, with a sword deep in the Orc’s back. He pulled it out without haste, a sickening squelch sounding where the wound opened, and stabbed him again. Azog was falling over now, and Thorin used his last remaining might to pull himself out from under his grasp.
“Oh...” he wheezed, touching his arm to the bloody wounds that now appeared on his midriff. Bilbo pulled his arm off and stabbed him one final time, watching as life drained from Azog the Defiler’s eyes once and for all.
“Thorin!” Bilbo yelled, immediately falling to his knees to meet the King. He was badly injured and did not have the strength to stand. “Thorin, are you alright? Please, please tell me you still live.”
A small smile crept onto Thorin’s bloodied face. His pale blue eyes sparkled as he looked up at his savior, strong and angelic as he was. He reached a hand up, and Bilbo met it, interlocking their fingers and resting them on Thorin’s sturdy chest. He kept their hands held tight, and they rested as the chaos around them slowly began to dissipate.
The fighting directly around them stopped first, as those Orcs who saw Azog’s death were the first to retreat. With their leader gone, the war was over. Legions began retreating their way out of the plains, numbers dwindled and strategy lost. Erebor was reclaimed.
“The acorn,” Thorin eked out, voice weak from injuries.
“Wh-- the acorn from Beorn’s garden?” Bilbo was perplexed.
Thorin nodded. “It saved me, Bilbo. You saved me.” He took a moment to cough before continuing.
“The Arkenstone, the riches. They all wither in the shadow of what truly matters. It is that which Azog does not have, that which gives me the strength to go on, my gentle Hobbit.”
He closed his eyes. He was too exhausted from his injuries; he needed medical attention immediately. Bilbo popped up with force and began to shout: “Someone, come help the King! Please!”