The Love that Holds Your Heart
The clouds that hide your mind
The fears that haunt your dreams
The ghosts that stalk your waking moments
The shadows that fill you with doubts
The love that holds your heart.
…
He couldn't say exactly when he began to love Thorin. There was no defining moment; no day when he woke up and decided he loved him. It had been gradual and slow, built upon days and nights of each others' enforced company, avoiding riling the other's temper and stubbornness until he didn't mind Thorin's company anymore; until he missed the solid warmth and presence of the dwarf; until his heart burst every time he looked at him and his stomach danced when those clear blue eyes turned to him.
There were days when he couldn't stand Thorin, when he wanted to stomp off and leave them all there without a burglar. But Thorin had wormed his way into his heart and Bilbo couldn't shake him off, even if he'd wanted to.
Then there were the days when Bilbo couldn't envisage life without his dwarf; couldn't imagine a version of events where there was no Thorin to hold him close in the dark, bitingly cold nights. It was in the nights, though, that the Thorin he knew by day, Thorin Oakenshield the King, was replaced by a different dwarf. Thorin son of Thrain, who'd been driven mad by grief, son of Thror, who'd succumbed to the gold-lust. Thorin of the line of Durin with the responsibility of a people on his back, which haunted him in the black of the night.
Bilbo would hold him close as the dwarf breathed in shallow gasps, clutching at Bilbo's clothes as he fought to maintain control.
He would wipe away the tears from Thorin's sleeping face that escaped as he dreamt of the fire, the ruin, the fear. He would gently kiss the knuckles of those large hands, stopping them from shaking when Thorin awoke, drenched in sweat and heartbeat erratic. He never spoke to Bilbo of the dreams, but Bilbo could work it out. Thorin feared he would follow his forbears' examples, that he too would be consumed by dragon sickness and in the face of the shimmering gold lose everything decent in him.
Bilbo would kiss the frown away, murmuring reassurances until Thorin relaxed, encircling his arms around his hobbit until they both fell asleep.
...
But then he did. Thorin fell under the spell of the gold. He cast out the one thing he truly cared about, losing the small body and soft lips and caring nature for a bit of glass - a rock which glittered at him sharply, condemningly, teasing.
It stared at him, the cold glass eye filled with cruel mirth. It followed him, weighing heavy in his heart even when it wasn't with him.
Look at me, it called to him, echoing through the silent halls. See what he betrayed you with. The poisonous words resounded in his mind and in his heart as he fought against the paralytic rage they induced. Lies, he told himself. His hobbit was incapable of malicious betrayal.
But the Arkenstone didn't give up.
Remember what you gave up, it taunted him in the dark of the halls as it cast its soft glow around, throwing shadows around the chamber; shadows in which Thorin saw his hobbit, saw his shape silhouetted in the ghostly shadows. He reached out to touch him - until his hand met only cold stone walls.
Look at what you got in return. Was it worth it, Thorin Oakenshield? Do you regret your choice?
Thorin snarled at the rock, hating its taunting winking. He closed his hand around it, loathing it, ready to smash it against the stone for what it made him do; but at the last minute it purred into his ear, whisper words of longing and power and slowly, slowly, Thorin's grip loosened and he let it drop to the floor, the heart of the mountain as hard as his own as he lay down to dreams full of green eyes and mousey curls.
...
When he saw those green eyes looking down at him as he lay on his makeshift cot after the battle, he knew it was for the last time. He knew that even if Bilbo could forgive him, he had ruined their chances because he was dying; his grip on the world was fading. Even when Bilbo, his hobbit, his One, pressed soft kisses to his hands in a gesture so heart-achingly familiar he knew he is too far gone.
Bilbo was the only thing he knew clearly; the only thing he could focus on which anchored him yet to the world. But even Bilbo could only work his magic so long. He smiled gently as Bilbo began to weep, the tears leaving salty tracks down his cheeks. Thorin reached up and pulled Bilbo closer, kissed the tears away as Bilbo had done for him so many times before. He pressed a soft kiss to that brow now creased with lines which was once smooth and carefree, and he knew he caused those lines.
With the taste of Bilbo's tears still on his lips and Bilbo's green eyes the last thing he saw, the King Under the Mountain passed.
The ghosts of his line dissipated and the shadows were swept away because all that remained, all that was left of Thorin Oakenshield was a love purer than the finest gold or gems for the small, broken hobbit with the heart that could never be fixed.
A/N: Some nice depressing Thilbo feels for you. I hope you all enjoyed (if you can enjoy feels?!) I just need Thilbo in my life and I guess this is what school does to me... :D Please let me know what you thought of this. It means a lot :) Thank you all so very much for reading :3