A delightful smell greeted Thorin as he neared the door to Bag End; and so he quickly removed his muddy boots and rushed inside, eager to see what Bilbo had made for breakfast. He was not disappointed, as the kitchen table was laden with baked apples, golden toast, scrambled eggs, and fried potatoes—and it was clear that the Hobbit had been cooking since not long after sunrise, despite how tired he must have been from the long night that the two of them had just shared.
Of course, they hadn't intended on the evening being so long. They had decided before heading over to Rory and Menegilda's place that they would stay for only a few minutes, so to drop off dessert—and, of course, to check on how mother and baby were doing. But though Rorimac had seemed somewhat tired and a little worse for wear, Menegilda and the child were actually doing quite well, and the Brandybucks hadn't hesitated at all in inviting the pair to extend their stay.
So their few minute visit stretched into an hour, then two; and all the while, Thorin had been entranced by little Saradoc. He had seen and held many newborns in the past, but this small Hobbit was so different from the Dwarf babies he had known—bare-faced and fuzzy-footed as the infant was, and with his tiny head crowned by a mess of curly blond hair. Thorin had stared at him with undisguised wonder for a long time, as the child yawned and hiccuped and seemed interested only in his little fingers as he sucked on them for comfort. After a while, and almost without his even realizing it, Thorin had even begun to coo and babble, while all around him the others watched on in amusement; but he was not embarrassed at all, surrounded by friends as he was.
Bilbo had also seemed fascinated by this new addition to his extended family. But while Thorin had been happy to hold the child, the Hobbit had nervously declined to do so—perhaps for fear of either dropping or breaking him. Still, as Thorin had been cradling the baby, Bilbo did take the chance to pat down the downy-soft fluff on the boy's feet and count his toes, announcing with relief afterwards that there were just the right number. Bilbo also noted at a point that the baby seemed to have his father's eyes and ears, which made Rory perk right up and swell with pride.
Eventually, however, Thorin and Bilbo really had no choice but to excuse themselves. Menegilda and the baby needed a rest, after all—and there was also the matter of a chicken waiting to be cooked at Bag End. Still, they had taken their time returning home, as well as with the meal preparation, and the eating and the cleaning up afterwards; and all the while, they had gone on happily speaking about children. Most often, the subject centered around the differences between Hobbit and Dwarf babies; and while Bilbo could not speak from much experience, he listened with great interest as Thorin told about Fíli and Kíli's upbringing.
Bilbo had at last dropped off to sleep on the sofa just before dawn, but even by his side, Thorin could not manage any rest at all. So he'd quietly slipped away, setting out to gather the honey that they would later need for baking. He had hoped that he might get back before the Hobbit awoke, to surprise him with a fresh comb; he hadn't, however, expected that he would anger the bees. Nor had he planned in any way to stop by the Sackville-Bagginses' house—though when he'd not only been provided with the opportunity but with a genuine reason to do so, his tired mind had convinced him it might just be a good time to introduce himself.
His visit had gone perhaps even a bit better than Thorin had expected, and all the way back to Bag End he had hoped that Bilbo would not be too upset with him for it. Now, though, all of the Dwarf's thoughts were on the wonderful breakfast spread across the long table. He stepped into the kitchen and cleared his throat, and Bilbo lifted his head from where he was standing at the wood-stove.
"There you are!" the Hobbit exclaimed, glancing over his shoulder before returning his attention to the bacon cooking in the pan before him. "Goodness, I was afraid you'd gotten lost!"
Thorin grinned as he sat down in his usual chair. "Do you always expect that of me?" he asked. "I have only lost my way in the Shire once, if you recall."
"Twice," Bilbo corrected him with a chuckle. "But really, what I was saying is that Dwarves are not exactly made for traipsing about in the woods."
"You knew I'd be leaving for honey this morning, then?" asked Thorin, setting the dirty satchel down on the floor. "Am I so predictable?"
"Well, no!" said Bilbo. "But you did make a lot of fuss and apology after using the last of the honey on the chicken last night, so I thought you might want to replace it. And to be honest, I tried to stay up so I could join you. How you can get by on so little sleep is quite beyond me." He turned with the frying-pan in his grip and walked over to the table; and after setting the still-sizzling skillet down beside the eggs, he at last looked up at Thorin and his eyes widened. "What happened?"
"Just what you said might happen," Thorin replied with a shrug, grimacing when one of the ointment-covered stings on his shoulder stuck to his still-filthy tunic. "The rope broke under my weight."
Bilbo ran his hand down the Dwarf's dirty sleeve. "Were you hurt?"
"Stung a bit, but not too badly. And I'm afraid the honey-crock was broken."
At this, Bilbo let out a small laugh. "So long as you were not broken," he said. "We have spare jars in the pantry, and another rope hereabouts. We'll go back out together later and get some more honey—and perhaps it might be better if you let me do the climbing this time! But for now, let's get those stings tended to."
He turned towards the basin, but Thorin took him gently by the wrist.
"We needn't worry about either the stings or the honey, I think," he said, letting Bilbo go. He then picked up the dirty satchel and set it on his lap, hesitating for a moment before drawing out the half-filled jar that Lobelia had given him. "This should be enough for today's needs, at least."
Bilbo took the crock from him, smiling crookedly. "Well, I suppose bought honey is better than none at all! I didn't think the stalls were open at the market at this hour, though. Or did you go knocking on the beekeeper's door?"
"I didn't buy it. It was given to me."
"Oh? By who?"
"The same person who treated my stings," said Thorin, lifting his sleeve and touching a fingertip softly to one of the ointment-sticky welts. "And a fine job she did, as well."
Bilbo's expression fell. "Thorin, did you…?" He stopped, taking a deep breath; then he pursed his lips and shook his head. "You did."
Thorin gave him a small nod. "Ms. Lobelia has invited us to tea this afternoon."
Bilbo paled, his jaw going slack; then he slowly set the jar down on the table and pushed it away before lowering himself into his chair. "We should eat," he told Thorin flatly, "before breakfast gets cold."
He served up the food without another word; and though it was as delicious as Thorin had imagined, he found that he could not enjoy it for the uncomfortable silence between them. Somehow, over the course of breakfast, the kitchen grew quieter and quieter, until even the birds outside the open window seemed to have given up on singing. At last, the meal reached its end—without a single comment or glance having passed between the pair—and when the Dwarf stood and began to gather the dishes, Bilbo quickly rose to his own feet and took the plates from his grip.
"I can manage the kitchen just fine on my own," he said bluntly, turning his back to Thorin and stalking over to the basin. "You've enough work to do just cleaning yourself up this morning."
Thorin looked down at his sticky arms and muddy shirt. "You may be right," he said. "And perhaps when we are both done, we might speak about—"
"Yes," interrupted Bilbo. "Later, perhaps."
Stiffening his shoulders, the Dwarf lifted the honey-satchel and spun about, taking a moment as he left the kitchen to hang the bag on the peg above the onion-bin. Ordinarily, he would not have been one to step away from such a challenging tone; but he knew Bilbo, and so he knew that it had not actually been meant as a challenge. What the Hobbit needed now was time alone to think. And their talk could wait—tea-time was, after all, still hours away, and Bilbo had not been wrong about Thorin needing to get cleaned up.
On he went then to his room and lowered himself to his knees, pulling his clothing-bag out from under the bed. Unfortunately, there were no fine outfits to choose from, as he had not actually brought much with him from Erebor, having left the site of the mine-collapse in a secret rush. And though the Dwarves that joined him had brought a few of his belongings with them, most of what was in his bags had been bought along the road. Still, despite their relative newness, many of his things were too road-worn and far too rough, he was sure, for Lobelia's liking; but he picked out a pair of more-or-less decent trousers and a clean linen tunic, both of which he was certain were suitable enough to be considered proper at tea in the Shire.
Bringing the clothes to the washroom, he drew for himself a cool bath. Stripping out of his sticky tunic was painful, but the water was soothing to his irritated skin and sore muscles; and after gently cleaning the ointment off of his stings and washing his hair, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax. He spent a long while soaking away the morning's aches and stresses, until at last he began to doze. Sinking to his chin in the water, he very nearly fell asleep in the tub; but he was startled when he heard a loud bang from somewhere nearby.
He jerked and splashed, shocked back to wakefulness; and he quickly rose out of the tub, then pulled on his trousers and rushed, still dripping, to the kitchen. It was completely clean and Bilbo was gone, and Thorin noticed also that the shopping basket was missing from its usual place on the potato bin. The bang, then, had been the slamming of the door to Bag End as the Hobbit had been leaving to go to the market—and the fact that he had left without a word to Thorin was worrisome, as it meant that Bilbo was still not ready to speak about the situation.
Thorin returned then to the washroom, where he finished drying off and dressing before tidying up the mess he had left. Bringing his dirty clothing back to his room, he shoved them with perhaps more force than necessary into the laundry bag in the corner; then he sighed and sat on the edge of the large bed. He had nearly forgotten how soft it was, after so many nights of sleeping sitting-up on the sofa beside Bilbo; and he felt suddenly tired once more. Lying down, he rested his cheek on the feather pillow and closed his eyes, falling into an almost instant sleep—though neither the abruptness of his nap nor the fact that it was daytime kept him from having a dark and unpleasant dream, such as he hadn't had in weeks.
In it, he found himself standing in the empty kitchen of Bag End, with bright sunlight streaming in through the open window. It was a warm and comforting light; but as he watched, dust began rising from the floor, obscuring the sunshine and replacing it with a dull and dingy gray. The room then went dark, and he heard creaking and crumbling. He could feel the ceiling and walls coming down around him, the floor vanished from beneath his bare feet, and he began falling into a deep and echoing chasm. But before he could either reach the bottom or call out, he was roused by a pleasant smell.
Sitting up in bed, he looked around to make sure the walls and floor were really intact; then he rose to his feet and made his way to the kitchen. There, he found Bilbo cleaning up at the basin again. On the table, beside the rejected honey-crock, was sitting an opened jar of preserved rhubarb and a half-empty basket of blueberries; and the sideboard had been dusted with flour and held the trimmings from a rounded crust. The scent that had woken Thorin was a pie, then—blueberry-rhubarb, as Primula had last evening mentioned was her childhood favorite—and that it was already baking told Thorin that he must have been sleeping for quite a long while.
The Hobbit seemed to sense that he was not alone, and he looked over his shoulder at Thorin and nodded before getting on with washing the cooking-utensils and bowls in the basin. The greeting was stiff, but at least a bit encouraging, so Thorin took a step into the kitchen.
"Do you need any help?" he asked, his voice still thick with fatigue.
"No, thank you," replied Bilbo in an almost too-polite sing-song tone.
"Well, if you do need me—"
"I'll know where to find you."
Letting out a little hum of acknowledgement, Thorin stepped down the hall and to the drawing-room. Although his intention had been to have a smoke while he gathered his thoughts, he did not reach for his pipe on the mantle, and instead he sat down hard in his chair by the cold fireplace and began to rub his now-throbbing temple. This whole situation was ridiculous, really; and though with almost anyone else, Thorin would have found himself within his rights to press the issue, for some reason he could not bring himself to do so with Bilbo.
He grunted and sat back, sliding his fingers through the barely-dry hair at the sides of his head. It was lengthening quickly—a ragged and unkempt mess, he was sure—and it was likely long enough now for him to braid back away from his face. But though he had some small pieces of jewelry in his bags, there was no hair-clasp among them. He thought for a moment, considering his options, then he reached into the basket that sat on the table beside his chair, bringing out several lengths of yarn that Menegilda had left from her crocheting.
The Dwarf stood and once more went to the washroom, where he looked at himself long and hard in the mirror. Forcing his gaze away from his own weary eyes, he again ran his fingers through his hair, forcing out as many tangles as he could. He then began fumbling with the uneven locks near his ears, dividing the hair up into several sections and at last managing to plait both sides before securing the braids well with the yarn. It looked rather chunky, and perhaps a bit haphazard; but at the very least it was clean and away from his face.
Focussing on his right ear where it was now exposed, it seemed to him somewhat plain and bare. That, he knew, he could rectify; and he shuffled to his room, and there dug through the smallest of his bags until he found a fine silver cuff amongst the bric-a-brac at the bottom. He slid it onto his ear, then he ran his fingertips over the metal. This, he supposed, would satisfy Lobelia's desire for him to clean himself well before coming over to tea—though he was not at all certain now if he and Bilbo would be going over there.
He heard the creaking of the oven door, and he swiftly returned to the kitchen. Bilbo was just then carrying the hot pie to the table; but when he saw Thorin in the doorway he stopped and his mouth fell open. From the way his eyes shifted up and around Thorin's face, the Dwarf felt that maybe his attention had been drawn to his braids and ear-cuff; but before Thorin could say anything, Bilbo closed his mouth and tensed his shoulders.
"What on Earth were you thinking?" he snapped, slamming the freshly-baked blueberry-rhubarb pie down on the table. The soft lattice-crust cracked, and hot syrup burst out, flowing down the side of the pan and onto the tabletop; but he paid it no mind, and instead swung around and shut the oven door with such force that the stovepipe rattled. "Why would you go to Lobelia, of all people? Could you not just have come home and let me take care of your stings?"
Thorin frowned down at the mess on the tabletop, then he stepped to the basin by the kitchen window. "You told me just yesterday that I had your blessing to speak with her, if ever the opportunity came up," he said, rolling his sleeves to his elbows and reaching into the water for a rag. Wringing it out, he returned to the table and began wiping up the syrup. "And that you would speak with her, if I could arrange it. That was what you said, was it not? Or did I mishear you?"
Bilbo let out what sounded like a low, frustrated growl, and he curled his oven-mitt-covered hands into fists. "I didn't think you would actually… you shouldn't have just assumed…" Growling again, he took the mitts off and threw them down onto the seat of one of the chairs. "You know how I feel about that family, Thorin! In any of the times that I have spoken about them, have I ever voiced the desire to actually spend any time with them? And now I have to go sit down with them for tea?"
"I did not answer her with certainty," said Thorin, setting the rag down on the table. "I told her only that I would ask you if you would like to come. Just because the invitation was extended, it doesn't mean that you must accept it."
"Yes, it does! You don't seem to understand how things work around here, Thorin! You can't just ignore an invitation. If you didn't outright tell her 'no', then she must assume that the answer is 'yes'. She is probably already done with most of the baking, and what would it say about me if I did not then show up?"
"If we did not show up," Thorin corrected him. "The invitation was extended to both of us." He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "And I thought that you yourself said that you no longer had a care for your reputation."
"No!" Bilbo said, pointing a finger at him. "Don't you dare try to turn this around on me. Reputation has nothing to do with it. It's about doing what's proper. If I… if we don't go, then all of her preparation will have been for nothing! A waste!"
"So you fear to hurt Lobelia's feelings by not showing up, then?" asked Thorin, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. "And you fear to hurt your own if you do show up?"
Bilbo threw his hands up into the air. "And what in the world are we going to speak about while we're there?" he asked, apparently ignoring Thorin. "About how much lovelier her flowers are than anyone else's? About how her clothing is finer than anyone else's? About how her baking is better than anyone else's?" He motioned toward the open window. "Or how about how I am not the real Bilbo Baggins, and so she and her husband should be the ones living in the home that my father built?"
Thorin shook his head. "You have spoken to trolls and goblins and a dragon of the worst kind. Why would you find speaking with your cousins to be such a daunting thing?"
"Because these particular cousins lack the civility of any troll or goblin or dragon I have ever met," returned Bilbo; then he rolled his eyes and lifted his shoulder into a slight shrug. "Granted, when those things wanted to have me for tea, it was in an entirely different way. But still, I think I would rather sit down to tea with wargs than with the Sackville-Bagginses."
Despite Bilbo's ire, Thorin could not help but crack a small smile. "If I am to be honest, I did not find Ms. Lobelia to be quite so difficult to speak to," he said. "She was, perhaps, a bit sharp of tongue—but no more so than certain other Hobbits I have met."
"Certain other Hobbits who would not be so inclined to speak about you behind your back," said Bilbo through clenched teeth.
He glanced towards the window, then reached out suddenly for the pie, presumably to bring it to the sill to cool; but he was no longer wearing his oven mitts, and when his hands closed around the edges of the pan he let out a yell of pain and pulled back. The jostled pie fell to the floor; and though it landed right-side-up, hot filling still splattered across the tiles. Thorin and Bilbo both jumped aside, then the two of them locked gazes for a moment before the Dwarf shifted his attention to Bilbo's hands.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, reaching out.
Bilbo backed away, then spun around to the basin. "I'm fine," he muttered, dipping his hands into the water. "I'll be fine."
Thorin stared at him for a few seconds, then he reached down, lifting the pie pan off the floor; and Bilbo looked over at him with widened eyes.
"Be careful!" he said, splashing water onto the sideboard. "It's still hot!'
"Nowhere near so hot as a forge," said Thorin, setting the pie on the table. "Barely warm to a Dwarf's touch."
Frowning, Bilbo turned back to the basin and resumed swishing his hands around in the water; and behind him, Thorin grabbed the already-dirty kitchen-rag off of the table and kneeled, so to clean up the sticky mess on the floor.
"Tell me this, at least," Bilbo spoke up. "Did you get stung on purpose, so that you would have an excuse to speak with Lobelia?"
"No," said Thorin, scrubbing the syrup out of the grout between the tiles. "Whether you believe me or not, my intention really was only to go out and gather the honey." He stood and joined Bilbo the sideboard, setting the rag down beside the basin. "It went well, until the rope snapped. Thankfully, that was not until I was near to the bottom, so I did not bother as many bees as I might have."
The corner of Bilbo's mouth twitched up, nearly into a smile. "Dwarves in trees are never graceful," he said, apparently in a weak effort at jest. "Well, in trees, or around them. Did you fall into the mere after? Is that why you were so filthy? It is a bad thing, you know, to get dirt and mud and swamp-water onto stings."
"So Ms. Lobelia told me," said Thorin, folding his arms and leaning back against the sideboard. "And she was not very happy about me showing up at her door in such a state."
"Tracked on her rugs, did you?"
"And muddied up her kitchen chair. But, honestly, I had not intended to meet with her at all today, even after I had been stung. I had actually gone past her house on the way back here this morning, but… I was compelled to turn around. I did not know when the opportunity to speak with her might come up again, so I thought I had just this one chance—"
"One chance to do what?" Bilbo broke in. "To interfere with something that is none of your concern?"
Thorin narrowed his eyes; and at once, Bilbo seemed to realize how harsh his words had been, and he spoke then somewhat more politely.
"There is a reason Lobelia and I have not spoken to one another in years, Thorin."
"And what would that reason be?" asked the Dwarf. "What could have been so great an offense that a rift still remains, even after all this time?"
"You know what it was about."
"No, I don't believe I do. Though I do know that it was neither about spoons, nor was it entirely about your cousins' desire to buy your house from you. What was it, then, that still makes you decry them as dreadful, to the point where you will not even try speaking with them? Do you fear the chance that you may discover otherwise?"
A troubled expression crossed Bilbo's face, and Thorin looked into the water to see that the Hobbit's hands were closed into fists. "Would it be my place, Thorin, to question why you are distanced from any of your own kin? Would I be within my rights to go behind your back and arrange for you to speak with a relation of yours, if that relation was someone that you had specifically told me you did not want to have anything to do with?"
"I would not now refuse to speak with them," said Thorin, scratching absently around one of the stings on his arm. "I have learned all too well what it is like to lose someone before I could let them know how I felt about them. Before I could let them know that I loved them. And… it pains me to think that you might go through the same."
Sympathy rose into Bilbo's eyes. "I know," he said. "But my family relationships, strained or otherwise, are not your problem, Thorin. This is a situation that has existed from long before you ever came into my life, and it is something that I alone should have to deal with. And besides, with the Sackville-Bagginses, it is not a matter of a love being unspoken, but of there being no love there at all."
"There was love there once. There was friendship—deeper, I think, than you care to admit. If there was no love, then there would not now be so much bitterness between you."
"And why would there not be? You and Thranduil had no love for one another, I'm sure, and yet the hatred and ill will you both held was heavy and persistent."
Thorin shifted his eyes down and away. "There was no love, true—but there was friendship between our peoples. It was… it was my grandfather's actions that began the rift, and Thranduil took a step further back from us when he refused to aid my people in our time of need." He focussed again on Bilbo. "From there, our friendship never recovered, even to the day that he thought to march on Erebor with the threat of war on his tongue. But even from that, we have begun to mend our fences; and I do not think that what Lobelia and her husband might have done to bring on your estrangement could be so bad as what was done to bring about the one between the Elves and my people."
A few seconds of silent staring followed; then Bilbo drew his hands out of the water and studied his burnt palms. "Yes, there was friendship between us, Thorin," he said. "Or, at least, I had thought there was, but it turned out to be false on Lobelia's part from the beginning. And why she would ever deign to invite us to tea, I cannot say." He gave Thorin a sidelong glance. "Unless it was by some word of yours, regarding your nobility."
Thorin reached up and touched the cuff on his ear. "The only word spoken of that was doubt on her part," he said, lowering his hand again. "Disbelief in the rumors that she had heard."
"But you were planning on telling her?" the Hobbit asked. "Tonight, even? And did you even consider that it might be a bad idea? Inviting her and others to put on a false smile and to speak sweet words when they meet with you, just so that they might enjoy the advantages of being associated with a king?"
At once Thorin's calm fell away. "And what advantages have you gained from that?" he asked, raising his voice to nearly a yell. "Aside from having to listen to that king as he went on and on about the burdens and cares that he must bear?"
Bilbo's mouth moved, but he seemed unable to find the words to reply; and Thorin hung his head in regret for the outburst, then stepped closer and continued more gently.
"If the absolute truth is that you would prefer to maintain your distance from your cousins indefinitely, then I apologize for interfering. If you will allow, I will go to their place for tea, myself, so that their preparations will not have gone completely to waste. I will give them your regards, and if another invitation is by some means extended, I will decline it."
Turning on his heel, he made his way out of the kitchen and went on to his room. He did not know why he had let Bilbo's words trouble him so, nor did he understand why he himself had felt so compelled to lash out in kind; but the fact remained that Bilbo had given his blessing to speak with Lobelia. Though now that he thought about it, it was possible that the blessing might well have been a soft lie on the Hobbit's part; a simple means to silence Thorin, so that they could go on to more pleasant subjects.
Kneeling beside his bed, he brought out the pack in which he carried his outer-clothing. He began digging roughly through it, unsure of what he was searching for, but certain that he wanted to find something within; and when he felt an unexpected brush of fur against his palm, he pulled his hand out in surprise. Gathering his wits, he reached back into the bag and took hold of the fur, drawing the item out and holding up. It was a fine cloak of sky-blue wool, embroidered with golden thread, sporting a short fox-fur lining, and decorated with a silver tassel on the hood and a delicate mithril clasp at the throat—the same cloak that Bilbo had yesterday suggested Thorin wear if he were really insistent upon appearing noble.
It was also the only item of clothing that he had neither bought along the road nor brought with him from Erebor. It had been given to his grandfather by his cousin, Náin, some few years after the dragon had come; then had been passed on to Thrain before coming into Thorin's possession after the Battle of Azanulbizar. He had left it with his sister before setting out on the quest to Erebor, so to keep it in good condition for the time when it would be passed on to Fíli; but when Thorin had reached Ered Luin with the news of the princes' fate, Dís had returned it to him with soft words of forgiveness. He had yet to be able to bring himself to wear it, but he thought he might be able to do so at least until he stepped through the Sackville-Bagginses' door for tea—and they would certainly not object to him hanging it on their peg, as they might his tattier traveling-cape.
As he slipped the cloak over his shoulders and fastened it, however, he wondered just what he and Bilbo's cousins would have to speak about while he was there. He supposed that he could keep them interested enough with talk of his travels for a while, at least. Surely, the provenance of the coin he had paid Lobelia with would come up in conversation, and so he'd then be able to move to the subject of the dragon and the reclamation of Erebor. But then Bilbo's part in that reclamation would also come up; and his cousins might sniff at his adventuring. And where then would the conversation lead?
Thorin turned his face to the guest-chamber's vaulted ceiling; then he briefly closed his eyes before stepping out of the room and down the hall. Passing the anteroom to the kitchen, he quickly opened the door to Bag End and walked outside, taking a deep breath of the warm mid-day air as he stopped on the step. It was too early to go to Lobelia's place just yet, but he did not now feel like staying in; and when he saw his filthy boots on the paving-stones, he realized that his preparations were not yet done, anyway.
Grabbing the shoes, he made his way onto the turfed roof; where he stopped, and for a few seconds focussed on the spot where he and Bilbo had settled in beside one another on a warm evening not so long ago. Pulling his thoughts back to the moment, he sat against the tree, gathering his cloak up behind him so not to dirty it, then he began trying his best to brush the caked mud off of one of the boots with his palm. There was too much on it to clean away in such a manner, so he started scraping the sole against an exposed root; and as the dried mud flaked off and fell away, he wondered just how clean was clean enough for him to leave the shoes on the Sackville-Bagginses step when he got to their house.
He had just begun to rub the side of the boot on the grass when he saw a pair of Hobbit-feet step into sight before him; and he looked up, giving Bilbo a small nod before turning his attention to the leaves dancing in the tree above them. The wind, as far as he could tell, was blowing in steadily from the north; and though the sky was pale blue and clear, when he turned to the side he saw that closer to the horizon clouds were gathering.
"It may rain later," the Dwarf said, feigning nonchalance; then he grabbed a twig off the ground and began working the mud out of one of the buckles on the side of the boot. "If you wish to have any honey other than Lobelia's today, you might want to go out and gather it now, before the storm hits."
"It may rain, yes," said Bilbo, sitting beside him. "But with my hands like this, I don't think I'd be able to scale a rope to get to the hive. Lobelia's honey will do, if I find I have need of it."
"And you would not find honey so obtained to be bitter?" asked Thorin.
Bilbo let out a brief, humorless laugh; then he paused before speaking again. "When I told you that Lobelia showed me a kindness once, I was not being… well, I was not being strictly truthful," he said in a small voice, as if he were sharing a secret. "But it was, in fact, the last kindness she showed me."
Thorin stopped digging at the grime in the buckle and looked over at Bilbo, urging him without so many words to continue; and so Bilbo did.
"Before that day, I went to their house often, and they came here just as much. We would have tea or dinner, or just sit and talk. And… well, so I knew that she would be kind when I went to her for help with my stings."
The Dwarf set the boot on the ground between them. "So, what happened, then?"
Bilbo rubbed the back of his neck, then he grimaced and rested his hand on his knee. "When I left there that day, I came home to make for them a loaf of brown bread as a thank you gift," he said. "But when I brought it back to their place, I… well I'm afraid that when I was outside their kitchen window, I overheard Lobelia speaking to… well, to someone. I don't know who. A neighbor, I suppose."
"You eavesdropped?" asked Thorin, raising an eyebrow.
"Not intentionally. And I knew even then that I should have left, that I should have come back to deliver the bread later. But I heard my name being spoken, so I kept listening."
"And you could not be blamed for that. Anyone would be curious if they heard themselves being spoken about."
"I suppose so," said Bilbo. "But still, there was something in Lobelia's voice—some edge that I had never heard before. I don't think I could have stopped listening, even if I had not been the subject of the conversation."
"What was it, then?" asked Thorin, his curiosity rising. "What did she say that still bothers you so?"
Bilbo flexed his injured fingers a few times, then let out a weary sigh. "She said that it was wrong of me to live in a home the size of Bag End alone. She said that no proper Hobbit would keep such a place to himself. She said I was selfish, that I was greedy, that I was no better than a…." The words died on his lips, and his cheeks began to redden.
"She said, perhaps, 'no better than a Dwarf'?" asked Thorin, though he did not wait for an answer. "And for that, you have not willingly spoken with her since?"
"Do you see now why I did not want to say anything to you about it? I… back then, I took offense to such a comparison. I did not know then what your kind was like, what you had been through, what… how you lived your lives. I did not know you, Thorin. You and your kin."
Thorin scratched his whiskered chin in thought; then he imagined for a moment that he'd caught the scent of wood-fire smoke. At once he feared that Bilbo had left the kitchen stove burning and that it had set something alight; but when he turned his face to the sky he realized that the smell was blowing in on the breeze, probably from the chimney of some nearby Hobbit-hole, and he looked back down to Bilbo.
"And now that you do know us well?" he asked at last. "The resentment still remains?"
"Yes," answered Bilbo. "But for a different reason altogether. It lingers now because she believes Dwarves to be greedy and selfish, when she is speaking of someone… of a people I have grown to love."
A weak smile tugged at the corner of Thorin's mouth. "When I spoke with Ms. Lobelia, she did not seem to hate Dwarves. At least, she said little to that regard—and I am certain that most of her displeasure was due to me coming to her door unbidden at such an early hour, and in such an unpleasant state."
"Well, and she wouldn't say it, would she? Not to your face, anyway. I promise you, though, that she was thinking that you were going to steal all of her possessions out from under her nose, simply because you are a Dwarf."
"You can promise that, Bilbo, when you have not spoken with her in years?" asked Thorin. "Do you not think that perhaps time might have changed her own perceptions, as it has yours?" He tilted his head down and peered at Bilbo past sunken eyebrows. "Or is it still her original words questioning your propriety that bother you, even after all this time?"
"Of course those words still bother me," admitted Bilbo, rising to his feet. "Why should I not be offended that she does not consider me to be a proper Hobbit?"
"Because you have time and again insisted that you do not care what people say about you," said Thorin, standing as well. "So what, then, is the truth, Bilbo? You claim to have no concern anymore for your reputation, and yet you bristle at the thought of your propriety being—"
"They are not one and the same," interrupted Bilbo. "You yourself would care little if someone thought poorly of you in general, so long as they did not consider you to be less than what you are—less than a Dwarf, or not enough of a Dwarf to call yourself one." He sniffed at the air, then gritted his teeth and returned his attention to Thorin. "So why should I not consider it an offense if someone says that I am not enough of a Hobbit to call myself one?"
"Back when she claimed that, she might have been wrong, and you might then have had cause to be offended; but from what I know of your kind, you are no longer what you may have once considered a proper Hobbit."
"Only because I am now closer to being a Dwarf," snapped Bilbo. "Because I am every bit what she—" He stopped suddenly, then swallowed hard.
An ache rose into Thorin's chest; and he turned to the side and nodded. "And tell me, Bilbo, if you still believe that is as bad a thing as you once did," he said as calmly as he could manage. "Tell me that, and I will step back from you and your life. I will leave you to your propriety; to your peace and quiet, your books, your garden... the simple comforts that Hobbits find when they are not forced away from their hearths and kitchens."
Bilbo made a little choking sound. "And you would do what, then?" he asked, seemingly struggling with the words. "Would you forget what you yourself came here for? What you stayed here for? For that same peace and quiet, and those same comforts?"
"I did not stay here for either peace or quiet," said Thorin, glancing again to the place where he had spent a long, peaceful night by Bilbo's side. "I stayed because I found in you what I needed."
"You found what in me?" pressed the Hobbit. "My words? My silences? My mere presence? And do Bag End and this town and the friends you have made here mean nothing to you?"
"Do not mistake me, Bilbo," said Thorin as a lump rose into his throat; then he turned his face to the tree swaying above them as he caught another whiff of smoke on the air. "I do love it here in the Shire. Here, where I am free to do things for myself, rather than sending the people I love to do them in my name—rather then sending them off to their deaths in my name." He stepped closer to Bilbo, looking deep into his eyes. "And I would stay here, if I was able, for as long as you would have me. But I will not stay here for another day if you feel that you are less than what you should be because you have become more of what I am."
A pained expression crossed Bilbo's face, and he blinked hard as he ran his fingers through his unruly curls. Wincing, he held his hand down with the palm open, revealing his badly-burnt skin; then he drew in a deep breath, as if preparing to say something. He stopped, though, and his brow furrowed slightly as he shifted his attention to the sky and sniffed again. He turned in a full circle, looking both high and low as he did, until at last he halted, squinting into the distance.
"Thorin…?" he said, barely above a whisper.
The Dwarf followed his gaze, and there he saw above the wooded area to the north a thick billowing of grey smoke obscuring the tops of the tallest trees.
"Where is that coming from?" asked Thorin.
"The Overhill Woods," Bilbo told him; then he pointed to the left and traced his finger to the right. "That wide gap in the trees there… that's the river that runs out from the Bog. I think… I think the smoke is coming from the charcoal yards."
"Is there not usually smoke coming from there?" asked Thorin, acutely aware of the wavering in his own voice. "They burn the logs down there, do they not? There should be some smoke, at least, from the chimneys."
"Never so much," said Bilbo with a small shake of his head. "Something isn't right…"
Thorin's jaw tightened as he continued to stare unblinkingly forward. A fire at the charcoal yards would surely spread to the woods nearby; and there leap from tree-to-tree, until it came in time to places where Hobbits lived. But while those homes that were underground might be somewhat protected, free-standing houses—with their thatched and wooden roofs—would not fare so well. Houses, Thorin realized with a start, like those that made up the settlement that surrounded the charcoal yard, itself.
"Send up the alarm," he said through his teeth; then he looked to Bilbo, who was breathing hard in his own agitation. "Go!"
The Dwarf then rushed off down the Hill, with his feet still bare and his long cloak flowing behind him; and as he stepped onto the road that led north, he heard Bilbo's voice calling out loudly the warning of 'fire!' to all who could hear.
NOTE: As usual, I have a few song suggestions for you!
"My Heart Dances" by Elton John
"This Is Me" by Randy Travis
"All I Know" by Five For Fighting
"Almost Goodbye" by Mark Chesnutt
