Many, many thanks to my beta, Krystal_Lazuli, for her unceasing efforts in keeping me on track.

Chapter Four

But Journey Long Before Me Lies

THE FIRST NIGHT had been horrible. Bilbo was still too angry about the whole situation to be at all interested in any kind of explanation, once he had determined that Thorin was indeed, in possession of his faculties, and that there wasn't some kind of horrible threat that had prompted this kind of high-handed behaviour. Thorin reminded himself that this was not unexpected, and steeled himself to endure.

Deep in the heart of the mountain, in a cavern once belonging to Thror I, but now the repository of a kingdom's wealth and a symbol of the bright future for a whole nation, a newly restored king began an ancient rite that would hopefully bind his soul to him forever. It was a rite of understanding, of honor and, at the heart of it, of great patience.

Patience was a cruel, elf-loving mistress, Thorin thought morosely as he watched Bilbo as the hobbit pointedly pretended any space where he stood was unoccupied.

The voices of the company faded as the song ended. The ritual had begun, with Thorin's heart pounding a staccato rhythm in his chest that he was sure even Óin could hear outside the chamber. He and Bilbo had stood staring at each other, caught in a motionless tableau as the hollow boom of the vault door sliding closed echoed in the still air. If pressed—if his nephew's very lives had depended that he answer, Thorin could not have given any kind of estimate as to how long they stayed there, Bilbo poised, ready to flee, and he, feet planted solidly before the anteroom doorway, silently blocking any thoughts of departure.

The cavern was large, likely immense to the hobbit's eyes, but not as grand as some of the later chambers built above. Delicate wrought iron brackets holding oil lamps hung at intervals from walls and pillars, their light reflecting in warm pinpricks gleaming from precious metals and gems everywhere, like billions of tiny stars descended to earth; but no cold-bright star had ever shone with this warm and rich glow. Deep as they were here, it was too far for the starlight to be visible through the cunning channels that allowed small amounts of sunlight in during the day, but a faint draft brought fresh, sweet air and occasionally caused the halfling's light curls to tickle the tips of his pointed ears.

"So," Bilbo had finally stuttered out, and paused to lick his lips and swallow a time or trice before he seemed to be able to go on. "So, what, ah – what exactly is going on?"

Mahal give me the wisdom to speak rightly; to say what must be said and make him understand and look upon me with favour. In Thorin's experience, though, Mahal rarely saw fit to make things easy for his beleaguered son. Consequentially, he did not hold out much hope for anything about this going easily. How to even begin explaining what must be said? He took a deep breath, and watched the clearly confused and nervous hobbit through half-lidded eyes. "We have now entered into the Khebabel Azyungaz," he began, and he couldn't help the small smile that crept upon his lips. It felt right to finally be beginning.

"Oh, good; The Kebalb–, Kehble–," Bilbo gave a frustrated groan and stamped one tough foot at his blatant inability to pronounce the guttural words. "We have begun what, exactly?" he asked, clearly irritated. Still, he seemed to relax some of his wary watchfulness with the idea that there was a rational explanation for what was happening.

"The Khebabel Azyungaz," Thorin reiterated patiently. He beckoned Bilbo to follow, and strode past coffers of gems and metals until he reached a small alcove. Here were a few benches and stools with smooth-worn seats and down-stuffed cushions nestled amongst the pillars; a place where royal officials would have held smaller audiences when this was still the heart of the kingdom. Picking one at random, he sat, and motioned for Bilbo to do the same.

Of course, the stubborn hobbit looked for a long moment like he was going to refuse, but eventually settled on one of the low stools that was only marginally too high for him and perched on the very edge of the seat. He tapped one foot against the stone floor in an impatient rhythm.

Thorin watched the flickering light cast by the oil lamps turn Bilbo's honey curls to a burnished bronze. They glowed more enchantingly in his sight than any polished treasure had before. He wondered how the Arkenstone had ever seemed more attractive — but the veil was removed from his sight now, and he could see clearly the beauty in the round lines of the hobbit's face, in the delicate point of his ears, and in his deceptive strength of will.

"So, what does it mean, then?" Bilbo demanded when Thorin remained lost in thought. "The thing I can't pronounce," he clarified when it became obvious that the king hadn't been paying attention.

He thought briefly of casting another prayer for success, but dismissed the idea immediately. There reached a certain point when begging, even from your deity, became embarrassing. Mahal was surely aware of his son's many weaknesses by now. "The Khebabel Azyungaz... It is a very old rite among my people; in truth, the very oldest," he began tentatively.

"I've never heard it mentioned." Bilbo seemed entranced with the idea of learning more about his dwarven friends. His posture had relaxed a little further, and his expression was less stiff.

"Nor would you have. It is very sacred, and not one we share with outsiders."

Bilbo flushed, but seemed very pleased by this. "So, what, I have ceased to be an outsider, by virtue of being willing to give the king a well earned scolding when he's earned it?" he asked cheekily,

Thorin was startled enough for a fleeting smile at this honest observation, but the weight of this looming conversation quickly chased it away. He opened his mouth to begin, let out his breath, closed it again. He stared helplessly at Bilbo's encouraging smile and blew out more frustrated breath. "I do not know where to start," he confessed.

"Opening one's mouth is generally accepted as a fine way to begin," Bilbo chided. "Why don't we try this? What does it mean?"

"Mean?" Thorin parroted dumbly, and winced. And the hobbit thought this was the easy part to start with?

"Yes, you know – try translating the words to Westron." Bilbo's tone was encouraging, obviously mistaking Thorin's blank stare for lack of comprehension, as opposed to abject terror.

"Some things do not translate well, Master Hobbit," he hedged.

"Well, what is the purpose of this ritual, then?"

I would have been better to answer the first question, Thorin thought, morosely. Instead of gaining time to ease into to my purpose, I will have to state it baldly. Faintly, he could still hear the rumbling echo of Bifur's earlier song held within the rock surrounding them; he wondered if Bilbo could hear it, too. Slowly, he drew breath, filling his lungs deeply and allowed his eyes to drift closed, forcing out the sight of Bilbo's increasing agitation, and allowing him to focus more fully on that song. From it, he could feel his purpose here. He could feel his ancient connection to this rite, and to his people.

He could draw courage.

"It is a courting rite, Master Hobbit," he stated, knowing that any attempt to be more subtle and slow would inevitably lead to misunderstanding between them. Words were never Thorin's strongest suit, and he would risk no confusion of his purpose now.

"Courting?" Bilbo spluttered, a rosy flush rising on his cheeks. "What are you – I mean, we aren't - are we?"

Thorin nodded gravely and confirmed, "Yes, Master Baggins, we are."

Brown eyes stared disbelievingly back at him for a long moment as Bilbo tried to take in this new information. "And telling me about this required a locked door?" he prodded carefully, as one who wasn't entirely sure they wished to hear the answer.

Leaning forward with his elbows resting on his bent knees, Thorin only hoped his expression could convey his absolute earnestness, without actually scaring the hobbit. An impossibly delicate balance, indeed, he thought ruefully, when the strength of my feelings scare even myself. "Yes. Courting you shall encompass all of my attention and efforts for the next six cycles of the moon," he affirmed, trying to keep his demeanour open, his voice soft and inviting. Given the wary expression on Bilbo's face, he was fairly certain he didn't succeed at being at all reassuring.

"Wait, -what?" Bilbo goggled at him, aghast. "Are you telling me that that door is going to remain locked for the next six months?"

Thorin could feel himself frowning, and consciously tried to smooth it out. Bilbo had never heard of these rituals, after all - his confusion was to be expected. Even if the immediate rejection did sting his breast fiercely. "For the next six months we shall remain here, in the Khufdîn Juzurab. I shall endeavour to show you the depth of my affection, and the worth of your choice."

"You just reclaimed Erebor – who will rule your kingdom for the next six months?" Bilbo pointed out, still gaping.

"Calm yourself, Master Burglar. Fili will rule in my stead."

"Calm myself?" Bilbo spluttered, indignantly. "And what, I don't actually get a say in this?"

Thorin winced. That was definitely accusing. "My cleverness in ensnaring you is also a part of it," he admitted stiffly. "I would not have initiated such a rite if I did not possess some certainty as to your regard."

"My regard?" he glared, though Thorin found the blush still staining his cheeks a hopeful, dichotomous reaction. "That's, I mean, that's rather, erm...I'm— Bother and confusticate you dwarves!" Bilbo burst out, finally, losing patience. He took a moment, breathing deeply, and staring at his hands where he had fisted the fine fabric of his trousers, probably without even realising it, knowing how he felt about creases.

"I would have you as my partner in all things," Thorin tried to interject. "I would bond with you through all the days of my life—"

This, apparently, was the wrong thing to say, as Bilbo's head shot up again. "Married?" he squawked. "I hardly think we've developed the proper relationship for that, do you?"

Thorin could feel the place this creature held inside him – the edges were still tender and raw, like the strings of his harp that had been forced to stretch too far. It was a place that wouldn't snap back into shape. It was a hollow feeling, a void that longed to be filled, and here Bilbo sat, questioning his devotion? "I think that we have journeyed far together. We have accomplished the impossible together, and we have faced the best and worst of each other, together. If this has not given us a sufficient relationship, I would very much call you a liar," and he was seething now, glaring daggers and drawing the tatters of his wounded pride to his breast like a shield.

"Sophistry," Bilbo snapped, clearly neither intimidated nor impressed. "I request that you let me out, and we can discuss this nonsense rationally tomorrow."

"This 'nonsense' is an ancient rite of extreme importance," Thorin growled, crossing his arms angrily. "And it will conclude in six months."

"Then I don't think we have anything further to discuss, do you?" he huffed, crossing his own arms and tapping one foot in an irritated staccato rhythm. "I would like to remove myself from your presence, before your bull-headedness drives me to do something decidedly ill-mannered."

Thorin took a deep breath. Held it; let it out slowly. It didn't help. "Perhaps you are right," he conceded stiffly. "We shall leave it for now. There are rooms made up, part of the refuges, I will show you–"

"I'm sure I can find my own way, thanks," Bilbo said, coolly. He stood and walked away, head high and without looking back, leaving Thorin to stare dully at his own tightly clenched fists.

The next several days were strained, to say the least. Bilbo spent his time examining his surroundings, though when the sun was at its zenith, and the light that reached them through the channels was strongest, he would take a book or manuscript with him and curl up in the patches of sunshine that warmed the stone floor.

The vast hall was filled with dwarrow history; colourful murals made not only of pigments, but of mosaics of stone and gems and metals that depicted important events of past ages; Sculpture and carvings made by some of the most celebrated Craft masters, not to mention the literally thousands of examples of the best his people could produce included in the vast treasure itself. The walls still hung with armour so finely wrought as to offer no encumbrance to the wearer; battle-hard, but yet still somehow beautiful. Jewellery wrought so fine as to appear almost as gossamer, or more heavy adornments of intricate design could be found in hundreds of examples; pieces so resplendent, so agonized-over during their crafting that their names were remembered through the ages. Thorin longed to share it all with him, but Bilbo steadfastly ignored him whenever he attempted to intrude during the hobbit's solitary explorations. He could only presume the reason that he had not simply slipped on his confounded ring and avoided him altogether was because then he would not have the satisfaction of blatantly ignoring the fuming king.

-..-

FILI'S DAYS HAD been filled with tedium since his uncle had entered the Bonding Rite, and he had quickly confirmed that being King was less exciting than he and Kili had once supposed. Long ago, in their nursery days, they had played at it; hardly able to wait for the day they could rule. Of course, there was no kingdom to rule, back then, but to Fili and Kili, there had never been any doubt that by the time they were old enough, there would indeed be a throne for them to take. Uncle Thorin always seemed to loom larger than life, with a truly impressive array of glares that sent his rambunctious young nephews cowering with a single glance, and Dwalin had always been the first to admit to Uncle's skill with a blade. Anyone who could best Dwalin must be able to accomplish anything - and what did a mere dragon have, next to that?

Right now, Fili was wishing he were still back in his cold room in Ered Luin, instead of struggling with choices that seemed far bigger than himself. This past seven-day had plagued him with unending decisions, each one seeming to hold the weight of their kingdom's future restoration and prosperity. When the never ending questions from petitions and Council meetings dried up for an hour or two, there were inspections to be held, or, if he could squeeze it in, a hasty meal and sleep. He highly suspected his bed had forgotten what he looked like, and he supposed it was a good thing he had never had the time to pursue some nice dam to warm it, as this last week would have definitely had him in her poor graces. Even the granite throne was highly uncomfortable beneath his backside, and frankly, the constant attendance of one or more of his uncle's officials were giving him a headache.

He endured; neither he nor Kili wanted to do anything that might let Uncle down when he had placed such unprecedented trust on their shoulders. This morning, though, he had just wanted to pull the coverlet back over his head when one of Bombur's nephews, who had been pressed into service as his valet, came to wake him. He had been so reluctant; in the end he had almost been late. He'd had to sprint for the throne room, careening down the narrow servants' passages, trying not to be seen. It had been a close thing, but he had slide to a halt, panting, outside the heavily ornamented doors just as they swung open to reveal Balin. He gave Fili a reproving look, but he didn't try all that hard to hide the upturn of his lips, either, so Fili figured he was okay. Kili had arrived moments later, also trying valiantly to pretend he wasn't winded. Glóin nodded to them, distracted, as they crossed the throne room. The red-haired Master Merchant was already scowling at his fellow Council members despite the meeting not even having been officially begun.

It had been a week full of arguments it seemed, and the one that was waiting for him when he arrived was making him wish he'd never allowed young Lýthur to pry him from his bed, no matter how discouraged he'd looked.

"My Prince." With a nod that barely qualified as respectful, one of the many functionaries attached to the King's Council approached the throne "May I remind you that we do not have the luxury of an abundance of allies in our current situation?"

He was informed, almost before Fili had even had a chance to set his bum on the throne, that scouts had sent word of the imminent arrival of a representative from one of the Eastern dwarven nations. No indication had been sent of which kingdom was sending such a delegate, so they must not be traveling with banners furled or ornamentations displayed. Of course, this had caused the entire assembly of Council dwarves and their assorted toads to erupt into violet discussion, which Fili had had the misfortune of interrupting with his untimely arrival.

Kili stood stiffly behind and a single step to the left of the throne, trying to look serious and grown-up. Fili could practically feel him vibrating with his desire to contradict the officious little toady, but Fili was proud of his discipline in holding his tongue. He looked over the other dwarrow standing before him, silently inviting them to be heard by the Throne, and resisted the urge to shift on his seat and ease his aching backside. How does Uncle do this all day?

A lean dwarf, even leaner than Nori, with gaunt looking cheeks and a restlessness in his fingers and toes when forced to be still in long council meetings, stepped before the throne. Lord Jústi, head of the Banker's Guild, bowed low, but with efficiency, not obeisance. "Your Highness, please consider that we do indeed have allies close at hand," he murmured, and somehow it was the kind of voice that filled a chamber despite being barely louder than a whisper. Several of the other dwarves and dams straightened as he spoke, obviously listening with respect. "It will surely not be long before Dale is again hale and whole; they will certainly see how their interests lie with ours. Dáin, also, can be counted on should we need for more military support. We do not need to be too hasty in giving our hand in alliance; we have the luxury of time."

"Ask Dáin for any more help, and we might as well give him the keys to the treasury!" someone else burst in. "His help will not come cheaply."

And the floodgates burst again, with frenzied shouts ringing across the chamber until the dust moats were dancing hither and yon on the currents of their collective breath.

"We cannot trust the Stonefoot line–"

"Stonefoots? Send them back!"

"The Ironfists can be reasoned with; and their blades are second to none."

"We have no need to indebt ourselves to anyone again; where were they when we needed a home?"

Fili took a deep breath and stood. "Correct me if I err," he said, trying desperately to sound confident and reasonable, and probably failing miserably at both, "but we have not, in fact, heard what this ambassador has to say. Is it not a bit presumptuous to be discussing the possible benefits of an alliance before we have been extended the offer formally?" he pointed out, a bit bewildered by all this discussion over the matter. It escaped him how these people ever got anything done, when they spent so much time in pointless discussions over unknowns.

The shifting gazes of the Council members, the way none of them would meet his eyes was answer enough. It was him they doubted, his ability. To be fair, it was probably completely reasonable for them to doubt his skills in diplomacy; heck, he doubted his skills! And it wasn't as if uncle Thorin was known for being a great diplomat himself, either, except with a sword. That was what this discussion was really about, whether or not they should allow the fledgling king to blunder before an outsider. Slightly anxious, he looked to Balin were he sat, puffing his pipe quietly, simply watching.

Apparently, the old advisor felt it was time to step in. Carefully, he snubbed his pipe, tapping it out before pulling out his flat leather purse; sliding the pipe in its place and tucking it back in some inner recess of his robe. Around him, the din had not decreased one bit. He stood, caught Fili's eye and winked.

"Brothers!" he cried out, and Fili envied how richly his voice filled the room and commanded attention. "Our esteemed prince is right – and thank goodness for his youth that has kept him from politics, so that his good sense has not yet been completely eroded." Fili almost groaned when Kili gave a muffled, very suspicious sounding cough. Several of the more astute lords transferred their hard glares to the pair of them.

"We do not yet know which clan has sent this ambassador to us, nor what it is they wish to tell us. And since it is impossible to make any plans without these key pieces of information, perhaps we can let this matter go and move on to something in which we may be able to exert some hope of success, hmmm?"

When the representative did finally arrive, several hours later, the announcement that he was from the Blacklock line was met with general relief from those assembled. Of all the other dwarven families, the Blacklocks were the ones closest to the Longbeards, having ties of the most ancient kind when Durin I took a Blacklock dam as his mate.

For the next hour, while their guest freshened up and cleaned the dust of travel from his person, Fili was bombarded by advice and direction from his Council. Frankly, he thought he might have been far less nervous if they would just shut up and let him think.

It was with great relief that Fili watched the throne room doors swing open, and one of Dwalin's men stepped forward smartly.

"My Prince," he interrupted the Council gruffly, "May I present Iór, of the Blacklock line?"

-..-

THE GREATEST DRAWBACK of having a Great Fit of Temper here in the bowels of Erebor was that it was monumentally ineffective, as there were no creatures in all of Arda as stubborn as the dwarves, Bilbo reflected sourly as he attempted to busy himself with a bit of reading. Of course, that would have been made easier if the tome in question had been written in a comprehensible language, but Baggins' could be a bit stubborn too, when they put their mind to it. Besides, the stone beneath him was warm in the pools of late afternoon sunlight, and reminded him of sitting on his own sun-warmed bench in his front garden by his beautiful green door with is polished brass handle. He had always been so proud of his home, and he missed it slightly less in these moments.

The dwarf king was perfectly content to wait him out, it seemed. Patiently, he gave the hobbit space to fume and stomp about the chambers, making no further overtures after the first few that had provided Bilbo with a few satisfying openings to vent his irritation. With his ears no doubt still ringing, Thorin retreated to wait out his temper. Days passed, and the infuriating king had the effrontery of not once trying to apologize, or mollify Bilbo's - entirely reasonable! – ire. Honestly, Bilbo couldn't fathom it.

The truth of it was, though, it was hard work to maintain that level of fury; an emotional drain that just left Bilbo feeling wrung out like one of Mrs Gamgee's cleaning rags on washday. Thorin was prepared to wait, stoic as stone, until Bilbo anger spent itself. Fortunately for the stubborn king, hobbit rages tended to blow over as hot tempests that quickly burned themselves out - unlike dwarves, who could hold onto their smoldering anger and fury for generations, it seemed. Not that Bilbo wasn't still very angry over his imprisonment, but stomping about and ignoring the dwarf king was doing nothing to rectify the situation. He could only hope that he would be able to talk Thorin into seeing some kind of sense. He shuddered to imagine the difficulties Fili and Kili were facing by now, trying to cope with the running of a newly reclaimed kingdom in their uncle's absence. He tried telling himself that it was none of his concern what their uncle chose to saddle them with, but a heavy weight of worry had settled in his heart. At the very least, he owed it to them to try and talk some sense into their erstwhile king.

And so, after nearly two weeks of fuming silences punctuated only by Thorin's infrequent attempts of sharing one of their delivered meals, Bilbo was finding his anger had cooled, leaving mostly weary frustration in its wake. The dwarves were his friends, after all. They had fought together through some of the most harrowing experiences of Bilbo's life, and forged a hard-won trust between them. He knew, however much he didn't feel like acknowledging it, that despite the complete unacceptability of their actions (at least, from his point of view), that this friends had intended him no harm.

Their evening meal was again delivered, utilizing a truly ingenious contraption that sent a box on the end of a pulley containing a tray of savoury dishes down a narrow shaft that lead to the kitchens, apparently. Thorin called it a 'dolly', though the only dollies Bilbo was familiar with were usually in little hobbit lasses arms, and most definitely did not contain food. He had found that whenever Thorin began trying to explain it to him, his eyes glazed over after the third or fourth mention of things like 'sheave' or 'adjustable operating diameters' until Bilbo wasn't entirely certain he wasn't actually speaking Khuzdûl. Still, from time to time in this past two seven-days, Bilbo had found himself wondering wistfully if he couldn't somehow increase the frequency of the deliveries to a more hobbit-approved schedule.

This particular evening, Thorin had just finished removing the covered trays, and sent the box back up with a sharp tug of the chain when Bilbo decided enough was enough.

"You truly plan to go through with this ancient rite of yours?"

Thorin paused before turning to place the dishes on the decorated table he had taken to setting their meals out on each day, but other than a tightening of his shoulders, gave no other indication that Bilbo's presence surprised him.

"Yes, Master Baggins, I do," he affirmed gravely. Slowly, as if worried he might spook Bilbo if he moved to quickly, Thorin sank down onto the bench opposite the hobbit. The fact that he did this without breaking eye contact from beneath his heavy brow was rather silly, in Bilbo's opinion. Honestly, it's not as if he was going anywhere, not after seeking out the dunderheaded bully.

"I intend very much to complete this rite with you," Thorin rumbled, continuing to stare searchingly into Bilbo's expression. "And it is my fervent wish that I may prove myself worthy."

Oh, now this just wouldn't do. Bilbo could feel himself blushing right up to the tips of his ears to hear Thorin speak that way; each confident declaration just turned his stomach into a writhing mess, and there was no way he was allowing that overgrown – overgrown dwarf! To interfere with his meals, on top of everything else. And he absolutely wasn't going to examine any feelings he may have held until he was good and through with being mad. "That's quite enough of that, thank you," he said crisply, reaching for the nearest tray and hastily scooping some of what turned out to be some kind of poached fish onto his plate. And if it was several moments before he was willing to risk raising his eyes above the level of his companion's chin that was strictly his own business.

When he did, it was to find Thorin scowling down at him.

"It's no use looking at me like that – You're the one who dragged me into this," Bilbo found himself snapping, thoroughly feed up.

Thorin's scowl got even darker, though Bilbo noted with some satisfaction, that he thought he also looked a touch guilty. And while Bilbo was enjoying putting Thorin in his place on the matter, it ultimately wouldn't be helpful if they devolved into a fight again. With visible effort, he took a deep breath and tried to catch hold of his temper. Thorin was his friend, he reminded himself. This was obviously some kind of ... of a dwarf thing; a cultural mathom, if such a thing existed; meaningful to the dwarves, but the true significance totally incomprehensible to an outsider. Besides, he hasn't been in his right mind – perhaps there is lingering effect from the whole Arkenstone debacle? There, that almost made this whole fiasco - and his temper - easier to bear.

"I keep expecting Kili or Fili to pop in, laughing and confirming this was all a joke - a fit of childish exuberance, perhaps; but this?" he said, and he knew in that instant he sounded truly as lost and forlorn as he felt. Something in Thorin's impassive stare softened slightly, before he ducked his head. Bilbo looked down at the mahogany tabletop, hands clasped tightly in his lap. Why was this dratted dwarf always so confusing?

"You have always been fond of my nephews, haven't you?" Thorin asked, trying to break the awkward silence.

Bilbo gave a small, affectionate smile at the thought of the two princes. "It's rather hard not to be fond of them, isn't it?"

"I can introduce you to any number of their tutors who would disagree with you," Thorin grumped, sourly.

"Tosh. They suffer from an abundance of energy, perhaps, but their enthusiasm is infectious."

"Hmmm," Thorin grunted.

"Has there ever been turmoil between them?" Bilbo asked hesitantly, and Thorin quirked his eyebrow at him in confusion. "Because Fili will someday be king," the hobbit clarified.

Comprehension seemed to dawn, and Bilbo found himself suddenly trying not to feel self conscious at the king's growing evidence of mirth. "While Kili will remain a mere prince?" Thorin asked, and his whole countenance had relaxed- softened somehow. Idly, he pushed the remains of his meal away, and leaned back, regarding Bilbo thoughtfully.

"You are thinking of Kingship as if it were some kind of solitary prize, the way Men bestow royalty. Kili is just as important to the monarchy as Fili is, perhaps even more so." Thorin's eyes were crinkled with silent laughter. Bilbo stiffened, defensively.

"What do I know about the convoluted thinking of dwarves?" he sniffed.

"No; convoluted is the thinking that one man alone can always know what is right, and what is wise. Convoluted is imbuing such an office with god-like mimicry as to render everyone vulnerable to his whims. Straightforward is knowing that one dwarf alone is not gifted enough to accomplish such a task, it will always take two, to ensure balance and tempered thinking. Kili will be Fili's advisor and most trusted voice."

Bilbo couldn't help his incredulous stare when trying to envision irrepressible, happy-go-lucky Kili as being a voice of wisdom and diplomacy. The image of the princeling in a long, tatty grey robe and sweeping pointed hat popped into his head and he barely turned his desire to laugh into a coughing fit.

Thorin, of course, did not look at all fooled. "He is young yet, but he will be the strength behind Fili's rule, and act in his stead when needful. Kili holds the very important position of Prince of Erebor, and that is not just the voice of the crown to the people, but the voice of the people to the crown. It is a very delicate balance that requires much charisma and affability, and is one that Kili is getting better at holding every day that passes."

And, Yavanna take him, Thorin was right. Kili was charming and likeable, and invited you in to share your confidences with someone so sympathetic. He teased and fooled around, but rarely went too far with his mischief, always being able to switch off in an instant and displaying that despite appearances, he never lost himself for a moment. In fact, looking back on Fili and Kili's relationship with new eyes, Bilbo could see what he had taken for mere brotherly closeness was actually the foundations of a very important partnership. For a people who, individually, seemed to value solitary pursuits and self-reliance, dwarves it seemed, were profoundly dualist at the core of their society. So, where did a solitary, exiled king fit into this growing tapestry? Suddenly, Bilbo wanted to know Thorin, as he was beginning to suspect, he hadn't known him before.

"And you've ruled alone? Or is Dis your... co-ruler, or whatever you call it?"

"Melhekhur-dohyar," the dwarf murmured, and his eyes shuttered and looked distant, and Bilbo knew it was not happy thoughts that took the king, though there was fondness amidst the melancholy as well.

Not sure what to say, and feeling distinctly uncomfortable, Bilbo waited and tried not to fidget.

"Melhekhur-dohyar; the King's Anvil," Thorin clarified a moment later, bringing his attention back from wherever it had been. "The king is known as the Hammer; for neither is enough alone."

"So, Dis is your Anvil, then?"

Thorin hesitated again, and Bilbo regretted the question. "Dis is a wonderful sister. She supports my rule and aids me in all the ways she can," he said.

"But?" the hobbit asked gently.

The dwarf king took a breath, and held it for a moment before releasing it. His eyes, blue shards glittering beneath his brow, caught Bilbo's and held his gaze. "Dis was not raised to be my Dohyar," he said, and his voice was remote and his posture unconsciously stiff. "The difference between Frerin and I was the same as that between Fili and Kili; just five years. Such a small age difference is unusual between siblings, and we were very close. Before the dragon came, we probably got into even more trouble than my sister-sons, between one thing and another."

"Somehow, I find I can imagine such a thing without any effort at all," Bilbo retorted dryly. "I'm sure Dis would be able to tell of some truly horrendous boyhood pranks." Thorin flashed him a fierce little smile that seemed to show more teeth than was strictly proper for an adult feeling shamed at childhood indiscretions, he felt.

"It has been over one hundred and forty years, and I miss him still. After his death at the Battle of Azanulbizar, we were in exile. There was never really a reason for Dis to begin such training, then."

This was probably the best opening he was going to get to broach the subject of Fili's rule. He took a deep breath, and surreptitiously crossed two toes, for luck.

"And you've been in exile all this time," Bilbo started gently, knowing it was exceedingly bad manners to continue to pick at something so painful, but unsure how else to begin.

Thorin grunted, and looked away to stare off into the distance.

"And given your people's, er, circumstance," he tried, tactfully, "there was no real reason for Dis to begin such royal training."

"As I said, Master Hobbit," Thorin grumbled.

And now for the crux of it, Bilbo my lad. "Well, given that, "he began, tentatively, "I imagine Fili, and especially Kili, never really got much training, either?"

Thorin just shrugged. "Then, this is a good opportunity for Erebor and my nephews both."

"Ruling Erebor right now, with so much turmoil, must be incredibly difficult."

Thorin cocked an eyebrow at him, as if trying to fathom Bilbo's point.

"I would think," Bilbo said, being sure to clearly enunciate each word, "it would take a very strong king and experienced leader to not make a complete hash of it."

Thorin's gaze rested heavily on Bilbo as he clearly mulled over what the hobbit had said.

"My ruling would impress you?" Thorin asked slowly, his blue eyes boring into Bilbo's.

"Yes!" Bilbo cried, exasperated, throwing his hands up in supplication to Yavanna, perhaps - Obviously Aulë wasn't having any headway with his stubborn son. "You doing your job would impress me very much." Thorin's expressions rarely gave away much of what he was thinking, but right now, Bilbo was left with the distinct impression of immense satisfaction.

"You will make an excellent ruler to my people. You are as compassionate and self-less as if you had been raised to this responsibility, even towards people who are not your own. Mahal has truly favoured me."

Bilbo shook this off impatiently. "So, you'll go oversee the reconstruction? Go look after your kingdom?"

Thorin looked at him, considering. "Therein lays our first compromise, Master hobbit." Thorin's tone was serious, and his look contemplative as he sat on one of the cushions, and flicked his eyes pointedly to the others nearby.

Bilbo narrowed his eyes, glaring. Thorin's lips twitched, and damn it if the confusticating dwarf wasn't laughing at his show of temper! Bilbo found himself tapping his foot in annoyance, but Thorin merely settled deeper into his seat, making a show of getting comfortable as he waited.

Giving up, Bilbo glared, leaving no doubt, he trusted, as to his annoyance at over-bearing dwarves and their high-handed ways, and plopped himself down with a deliberate lack of grace.

There was definitely a twitch in Thorin's neutral expression now. "Comfortable?" he enquired blandly.

"Just get on with it, if you please," Bilbo huffed. "You mentioned a compromise?"

Thorin regarded him for a moment, considering. "You would wish me to continue my duties as king," he finally began, his dark eyes never leaving Bilbo's face, "instead of allowing Fili to stand in my stead."

"I should think you would wish this as well! It's too much responsibility for Fili to take on all at once. Besides, not knowing what was happening would drive you batty in weeks."

"I am touched by your show of concern over my mental comfort, beloved."

"I simply don't want to deal with you, frankly. Now get on with it."

Thorin actually smiled at his comeback, but it lasted only a moment before he shook off his relaxed posture, and spoke seriously. "I have taken you here against your will, and for that I am truly sorry. I shall spend the rest of our lifetimes making it up to you, if you will allow me to," he held up a hand, forestalling Bilbo's obvious desire to cut in. "You are right, that I am torn in my desire to court you, and my desire to see to the needs of my people. I would welcome the chance to attempt to balance both, if you would allow it, but-" and here, he seemed to hesitate.

"But?" Bilbo prompted, curious despite himself.

"You are in possession of a magic ring, one that would make it relatively easy for you to attempt escape if I were to come and go through that door daily."

At the mention of his ring, Bilbo found himself glaring at Thorin, feeling unaccountably defensive. Thorin raised his hand, as if to ward off Bilbo's agitation. "Peace, Halfling. I did not wish to take this ring from you, and add theft to my many sins against you in this situation, so I had sought to have us both sealed in here together for the duration." Bilbo gave an awkward grimace at this, and dropped his gaze in mute apology for his assumption. "It is not as traditional, in a situation such as this," Thorin continued, giving a tiny nod in acknowledgement, "but it was a compromise I gladly made."

"But you have a kingdom to run!" he couldn't help himself from interrupting. "You should-" Thorin gave him a stern look, and Bilbo desisted. "Right. Sorry, continue."

"You have declared yourself desirous that I do this for you, that your discomfort would be lessened if you did not feel that you were the reason the keeping of the kingdom was given to Fili, instead of receiving the attention of its king."

"My discomfort, as you so politely call it, would be greatly lessened if you would cease this foolishness and let me go," Bilbo grumbled, glaring at his clasped hands where they hung between his bent knees. Really, it wasn't fair that the dwarf should know him so well as to realize that he did indeed feel guilty for distracting the king like this when his people were obviously going to need him.

"That I cannot do; not until the Khebabel Azyungaz is concluded. Will you consider instead a different agreement?"

"I'm listening," Bilbo agreed, guardedly.

Thorin's grey-eyed gaze felt like a physical weight as he watched the hobbit fidget for a long moment, seeming to choose his words with care. "Can you agree that you will make no attempt to either evade me, or leave this place before the appointed time? That you will allow me this chance to win your affections and prove my worth to you?"

Make no attempt to leave? Just sit back and allow this farce to happen? Bilbo was aghast. "Are you mad?" he couldn't quite stop himself from bursting out. Thorin's expression, which had been open despite his stern demeanor a moment before, became closed and aloof, though he said nothing to the hobbit's rash words. Mortified at the rudeness of his outburst- never mind the truth of it, it was still terribly uncouth to simply blurt out like that; Bilbo sat back on his cushion and managed to snap his gaping mouth shut with a snap. Really, I ought to have better manners, even if I have been under the questionable influence of dwarrrows this last year. "Thorin, I apologize. That was not at all polite of me."

"It matters not, Master Baggins." Thorin's tone was remote and closed off, and Bilbo had the uncomfortable sensation that he had managed to hurt him with his ill-considered outburst. Thorin may have deserved a bit of a dressing down for his high-handed ways, but that didn't excuse reciprocating in kind.

"I presented an option for your consideration. If you feel it is not something you can agree to, I have already stated that I am prepared to remain here with you, rather than take what is yours," he said, stiffly.

Several scathing observations crowded the tip of Bilbo's tongue at Thorin's apparently selective definition of taking things that were his, and apparently not including his freedom on that list. The jumble of indignant remarks forced him to pause before actually speaking, and probably, when he thought on it later, saved the conversation from degenerating any further. The King continued to sit on his cushion, no more than a foot away, but his gaze had shifted so he was now staring over his right shoulder, to the vast hall and statues of his ancestors instead of pinning Bilbo with his stare. Thorin's broad shoulders were rigid; his posture looked to be almost carved from stone. Nothing about him suggested any kind of flexibility or willingness to bend, and Bilbo released his frustrations with a sigh. Thorin was stubborn enough to be perfectly capable of going through with this madness; there would be no talking any kind of hobbit-sense into him, so that left Bilbo facing two very simple choices.

The people of Erebor would need their king. Not a young heir who had never lead, but the dwarf who had kept his people together during battle and peace alike, who had earned their trust. There would be many complications in the coming months; food would likely be an issue and housing - could Fili, inexperienced as he likely was, really manage to hold the people together through it all, without that bond of trust that Thorin would already own from them?

Either way, he was to be subjected to the dubious hospitality of this hall for half a growing-cycle, for if Thorin proceeded with his mad idea of locking himself in here with him, Bilbo had very little hope of escaping anyway.

What in the world had prompted this? While he certainly held no disparagement to his own worth - he was a Baggins of Bad-End, after all; a gentle-hobbit of high standing and reputation, but somehow that didn't seem like enough of a recommendation to prompt such a unexpected and altogether unruly declaration of intent as kidnapping! Bilbo peered at Thorin, suspiciously. Was this some new manifestation of the Gold Fever?

Thorin seemed to be rational, if one excepted of course, this rather bizarre imprisonment. And the other dwarves, far from seeming alarmed at their king's behavior, had been actively supportive! Incredible. Still, a question or two may give him a better idea of the rationality of Thorin's mind.

"What if I do give my word," Bilbo paused as Thorin's turned back to him, pinning him once more with his intense gaze. "About the ring, I mean?"

"Give me your word that you will not try to escape, either," Thorin corrected, the corner of one lip twitching ever so slightly, as if amused by Bilbo's attempt. "Give me your word, and I shall split my attention as you have requested. I will still require that Fili help me, but it will be good training for him. I will be both King," and here Thorin's eyes grew darker and his shoulders drew back fractionally, "and suitor."

Bilbo's fingers plucked at his worn pant leg, flustered. "Yes, well, I will settle for you fulfilling our bargain and being King."

Thorin ignored Bilbo's stammering as unimportant. "Do we have an accord?"

"How do you know I will keep my word? That I will not simply wait for the right opportunity and leave?"

Far from being disturbed by this possibility, Thorin appeared almost amused by it, which was not the sort of reaction Bilbo expected from someone suffering from any kind of possessive fever. Blast it. "You will not break your given word. You are, as you have reminded me innumerable times during our quest, a gentle-hobbit, and you would not have so little honor - so few manners, as to do that." He hesitated a moment, before adding in a much softer voice, "I must trust you, and trust that I know you. I have no doubts."

Bilbo glared at him mulishly, instead. Thorin simply waited knowingly. The arrogant sod. "Fine, yes. I give my word," he conceded irritably.

Thorn leaned back, with a slow, pleased smile curling his lips.

Frankly, Bilbo wanted to hit him.

-..-

Notes:

I strongly considering splitting this chapter, but in the end, decided on leaving it whole. . Hopefully the fact that it's a stupid-long chapter can be a peace offering - to make up for the fact that I was unable to post anything at all over the summer :p

You have all been amazingly loyal and awesome, and I love all your comments tremendously! Thank you for putting up with my erratic posting schedule, and continuing to encourage me to spend all my free time plotting the lives of some of our favourite fictional characters ;)

As a last note - I posted this from my phone - which turned out to be a real pain in my backside! - so any formatting errors are likely caused by that. Let me know, and I will be sure to fix it as soon as I'm home and able to access a proper computer ;p