A/N: So, here's the Thorin POV I promised.

This chapter is not strictly part of the fic. It's just a snapshot into Thorin's mind, because this is the point at which his relationship with Bilbo will begin to change. As such, you are not actually required to read it to understand the story, just something I thought interesting enough to add.

Chapter 10

Interlude - Of confused dwarves and odd halflings

Thorin Oakenshield was... baffled. And pissed and grateful and regretful. But mostly just baffled. Not in his wildest dreams - or nightmares - could he have conjured up such an impossible turn of events.

When the wizard had informed him he had found a suitable burglar, Thorin had dared to hope. But that feeling had been as fleeting as it had been painful; it had broken like fine porcelain, consuming his mind with a million sharp, jagged shards, shredding his psyche and taunting his foolish naïveté with cruel jabs. Had he not learned? All those long years, all the betrayal, and he still dared to trust?

The wizard had led him to a hobbit. A hobbit.

Not much was known about the race, but the dwarves had encountered halflings before. Thorin had been aware of their kind - peace-loving, gentle, soft. They never even left their villages, hiding away from the rest of the world, living in their own comfort with nary a care for the rest of Middle-Earth. Ignorant little things, and foolish too, in that if war found them, they would be so woefully unprepared, the lot of them would be slaughtered within a day. Distasteful twerps, not an ounce of fight in them. And Gandalf expected one to help. To help Thorin's people.

That damned wizard! Did he take Thorin for an idiot? Was he so dismissive of the quest for Erebor that he would mock the dwarves by forcing a hobbit upon them, as if the little thing could do anything but cover behind them? The halfling would be completely useless, a burden, and Gandalf expected Thorin to not only degrade himself by asking for the hobbit's assistance, but to accept him with open arms? Well, he had another thing coming!

Thorin would show him, show them all, how useless and inadequate the hobbit really was. He was king, he had his pride, and the wizard would learn not to disrespect him so. Gandalf was a good addition to their company, but Thorin was not about to accept this blatant belittling of their cause. Taking back Erebor was important to Thorin, to his people. It had been a dream of his grandfather's, his father's, and Thorin would be damned if he didn't at least try, now that he had the chance, however slim. Durin's Folk would prosper once again if they succeeded, and Thorin could finally provide them the lifestyle they deserved. His people could be the proud and strong nation they once were, not forced to live like common men. They shall mine gold once again, take back their ancestral home, theirs by right!

So Thorin had shown them. The halfling, as expected, had been a soft, blubbering idiot, unprepared and unwilling to take on such a task. He was young, his features and hands as soft as his spirit, with shining golden-brown curls and pouty lips unobscured by a beard. Thorin doubted he could even grow one. Just like his kin, he lived a simple life in his cozy, warm home, fussing about the most mundane things, unable to fight because he had no more need for such a skill than Thorin had need of him, and Thorin had been so disappointed, so angry...! While his people had been attacked by dragons, fought wars, this little thing's biggest concern was stuffing his face with food...! And above all that, he had dared poke fun at Thorin when the king had implied as much, disrespecting him in front of his entire company!

Oh, how Thorin had hated him. Had hated him even more when he had actually shown up the next morning, agreeing to accompany them. Thorin saw it for what it was; pity. As if dwarves ever wanted pity! Especially from soft, useless halflings! And so, Thorin had raged. Many a time, he had wished he could wring that pudgy little neck, hardly noticing as it turned skinnier, frailer, and when he had, it was only to note the halfling appeared even weaker than before. He was not a warrior, or even a traveler - one only had to look at him, wasting away already when they had hardly encountered any hardship at all. Useless!

And then they had come across the trolls. Thorin had accepted, if only grudgingly, that the hobbit at least had a good head between his pointed ears. But what would a sharp mind help against orcs and dragons? One could not cut down an enemy with wit alone. Yes, the halfling had saved them from a lot of spilt blood - and here Thorin had resolutely ignored the niggling feeling in the back of his mind that the hobbit had no reason to actually help them after all they had done to alienate him, clinging to his justified anger - but then the halfling had proven his inadequacy by getting caught. He had been so injured, he couldn't even breathe, let alone stand, and Thorin would be forced to slow down, to make one of his own carry and drag the hobbit along, because he couldn't even run. If danger found them in this state, his dwarves would be forced to protect their so-called burglar, risking their necks because the halfling didn't so much as have the strength to hide. Hadn't Thorin said so from the start? He would not have his own sacrificing their lives for the useless thing! He had told Gandalf he would not be responsible for his fate, and Thorin could and would leave the hobbit behind to save his people. It wasn't something he particularly wanted to do - despite all his rage he didn't wish the hobbit dead if wild animals or orcs came upon him while he couldn't move - but if he had to choose between the burglar and his dwarves, the success of their quest, there was no question about his decision.

But then that other wizard had shown up, whisking the halfling away. As much as Thorin hated to admit it, he felt relieved. He wouldn't have to choose between his people and an innocent life. It was for the best. Surely once the halfling recovered, he would come to his senses and leave for his cozy home. Yes, there was no doubt; the hobbit would finally leave. This was his chance, and Thorin was certain he was not stupid enough to waste it.

Afterwards, he had all but forgotten about the hobbit, so sure was he that they would never meet again. Not a second thought was spared, his attention all focused upon the foul elves their traitorous wizard had led them to. The company had wasted weeks in that godforsaken gaudy place, forced to play nice with their sworn enemies, all because Gandalf had insisted the tree-shaggers could read his map. How he loathed the idea of handing over such a sacred item! And shame above all, the elf Lord had been indeed capable of reading the ancient language of his people, when he himself couldn't. It had been such a degrading situation, it was all Thorin could do not to slaughter the lot of their hosts in retaliation. And then they had to spend yet more time there, waiting for the correct phrase of the moon to reveal the secrets the map held. Naturally, as soon as the elf Lord read him the contents hidden by the clever use of moon-runes, Thorin had alerted his company the next day to be prepared to depart. He had no doubt whatsoever that they would be stopped if they failed to escape soon. The opportunity arose when the elf's household had gotten distracted by the arrival of some important personnel or another, Gandalf knee-deep in the happenings, and without hesitation Thorin had sneaked his dwarves away, leaving their wizard to deal with the fallout. The man deserved it for bringing them there against Thorin's express wishes anyway.

It turned out to be one of the worst decisions he had ever made. Without Gandalf, there was little the company could do against a whole colony of goblins that appeared to inhabit the mountains. Thorin had expected an encounter or two with the fiends, but he had never imagined a complete kingdom with thousands of the foul things living so close to the mountain pass. Their kind rarely banded together in such numbers these days, there were few leaders among them strong enough to keep control of more than a small group. The company had been caught after seeking shelter from the rampaging stone-giants they had crossed paths with, and had been very nearly slaughtered when the wizard had finally caught up with them, saving them from certain doom with a magic trick that had knocked out all the goblins for a minute at least. It had been a struggle to get out of the caves nonetheless, the fiends awoke and swarmed them like murderous flies descending upon a stack of meat, but the company did manage to get away in the end, even slaying the goblin king on the way out. Thorin would have been proud of their accomplishment if he hadn't been so keenly aware it had been nothing but luck that had stayed fate's hand. He would never leave the wizard behind again, certainly. One such situation had been enough to convince Thorin about the necessity of the man's presence.

He had been forced to reconsider his earlier conviction when Gandalf demanded that they wait for the halfling once out in the open. Thorin had been ready to tear his hair out, seriously considering strangling the mad wizard there and then. Didn't the istar understand the halfling would not be coming back? His faith in the hobbit was admirable, but quite misplaced. Of course, Thorin being Thorin had said as much, which resulted in a long argument while the king surreptitiously herded the company towards the tree-line. But before he could make it as far as find a path leading to the valley bellow, Gandalf had gotten so angry about his refusal to 'see reason' and wait for the burglar, that he had all but manhandled Thorin to a halt near a clearing, giving him a piece of his mind on the matter. Thorin had mostly tuned it out, but finally, he had reluctantly agreed to camp there for the night. It had been getting late anyway, and the trees would provide adequate cover if they stayed quiet and didn't light a fire. Stupid halfling! Delaying them even while absent!

The sound of a warg's howl had been all that Thorin needed on top of everything that day. Mahal damn it all! And it was all the halfling's fault! They would have been far away if not for waiting on the hobbit in vain! Oh, if Thorin ever saw him again...! But then the orcs had been upon them, all riding wargs, and it had turned out to be such a large pack, the company had no hope of defeating them in their exhausted state. They had climbed the trees, but the beasts had thrown themselves upon the trunks with such force, the pines' roots couldn't hold under the strain. The dwarves had hopped from branch to branch, tree to tree, like demented monkeys, finally reaching the last one standing with nothing but the black abyss gaping below.

Then Thorin had spotted Azog. Azog, who should have been long dead. Azog, who had slaughtered his people, killed his family. Azog.

Thorin's mind had been curiously blank as he caught the eyes of the pale orc. They had stared at each other, completely focused. Thorin could not hear a sound, except for the blood rushing through his ears, deafening him to all else. He hadn't even noticed when flames sprung up around them, because his whole world had been narrowed to a pair of disgusting, beady black eyes, filled with malice and glee. He had hardly reacted to the pine beginning to tilt underneath them, just tightening his grip on the trunk, gaze glued to Azog unflinchingly.

When the fiend had smiled, baring his teeth in a parody of a grin, something snapped within Thorin. Tightening his abdomen, he had swung his leg over the trunk to straddle it, now noticing he had been hanging there in quite a precarious position, his feet dangling freely underneath. He had then crawled towards the jutting roots, and stood when he reached the rocky ledge. A great roar caused his eyes to flick to the side, and he spotted a monstrous bear decimating the orcs' ranks. He blinked, detached and not really comprehending, and brought his focus back on Azog.

Azog, whose black blood should be but a forgotten speck in the dirt at Moria's gates, not flowing in his veins. Thorin wanted that blood - thirsted for it - wanted it to dye his clothes black, needed to see it spurting out of Azog's jugular like a dying man needed water.

He had begun to walk forward as if in a trance, pulled by an unseen force. Flames had licked at his clothes and beard, but Thorin just shielded his face and leaped through. Orcist had been in his hand, even though he could not remember drawing it in the first place. And then Azog had tilted his head mockingly, and Thorin was running, they were both running, and then-

Pain.

That had certainly snapped Thorin out of his daze. His ribs had bent as the mace connected, Thorin had been able to feel them creaking as he was hit with such force, he had flown backwards, thankfully managing to keep a hold of his sword as he landed, bouncing on the grass like a puppet with its strings cut. And then the white warg had been towering over him, jaws clamping down around his left shoulder, and Thorin had yelled out in pain as his armor was pierced by impossibly strong fangs. He had brought up his sword, swatting at the beast's snout, and he had been tossed again, his lungs expelling air in a whoosh as he had hit the ground.

Mahal, it had hurt, and he had been so dizzy, but there was no time, Azog was forming words with those disgusting lips, and Thorin had tried hard to concentrate as the orc led his mount forward. He needed his sword, where was his sword, he had to find it...!

And then the halfling had been there, appearing as if out of thin air. A small, glowing blade had been thrust forward, and the white warg had jerked, its great head connecting with the hobbit and propelling him back. The beast had then stilled, falling sideways, causing Azog to roll off. The orc had gotten to his feet immediately, but didn't make for Thorin. Instead, he had gone for the halfling.

Thorin couldn't let this happen, he had to get up, he had to fight, Azog was his and his alone to deal with... But darkness had been creeping into his vision, and the king had fallen back with his sword finally clutched in his hand, unconscious.

It had truly been pathetic of him. To be so useless, unable to defend himself, and saved by the hobbit, of all people. The irony wasn't lost on Thorin. After regaining his senses, he paid no mind to the disorienting change in surroundings. Gandalf's large face was hovering above him, breaking out in a relieved smile when Thorin opened his heavy lids. Mahal, his body ached, and he felt so weak, but the halfling-

Thorin had to know. What had become of him? Had the hobbit been killed? Murdered while trying to save Thorin? The king licked his lips, opening and closing his mouth, forcing his parched throat to produce sound, but it proved to be quite difficult. A whole bunch of dwarves were suddenly crowding around him, cheering for him and laughing, and finally Oin had enough sense to offer Thorin a waterskin after he still failed to form coherent words, despite opening and closing his mouth like a fish continuously.

"The burglar," he forced out, "what became of him?"

It was Gandalf that answered. "He is fine my boy, safe and sound, right over there," he said pointing at some place over the numerous dwarf-heads with a bright smile, all of which turned to look with curiosity and some measure of awe.

Safe? The halfling had survived? How was it possible? It had been Azog he had faced, no one came away from such an encounter unscathed. Not that Thorin wasn't grateful. He was honestly very much relieved. When he noted the emotion however, annoyance washed all else to the background. He wasn't about to admit to worrying about the hobbit after all, not even to himself. What had the idiotic halfling been thinking, anyway? He could have been killed! He should never have come back, let alone thrown himself in in the path of The Defiler to save Thorin. The king had never been kind to him, belittled him with deliberate -but necessary - cruelness any chance he had gotten, so why had the hobbit done such a reckless thing only to save him?

It made no sense. In his place, Thorin would have certainly not acted so. Would he have left the hobbit to his fate if he had to choose between his own life or the other's? Probably. So why had Bilbo Baggins done the opposite of what any rational person in his situation would have? Thorin didn't know.

Perhaps he could chew out the halfling about his reckless actions, if only to alleviate his anger at his own failings, his mounting confusion, and the unfortunate feelings the whole situation had awoken in him. Afterwards, he could thank their burglar, offer repayment of such a deserving deed as was honorable, and that would be that. With that plan firmly in mind, he attempted to rise from the uncomfortable rock, but he needed help, no matter how much he resented it. Dwalin was there, pulling him up as gently as he could, and when Thorin finally staggered to his feet, he immediately began searching for the hobbit with his gaze.

When he spotted him some distance away, at first, Thorin wasn't entirely sure what he was seeing. What in the name of Mahal...?

The hobbit was standing with his back to Thorin. But what really threw the king was the great, half-naked, giant of a man kneeling in front of their burglar, his face inching down towards the hobbit's, until Thorin could see the expression he wore no longer, obscured by thick, curly hair. What were they... was that man kissing their hobbit? Thorin's eyes popped open wide when he took it all in. What had that little idiot gotten himself into this time? Never mind; Thorin was not about to watch their burglar get molested by some stranger, a male stranger, after all the hobbit had done for him- them- the company!

And Thorin was already walking before he realized it, approaching the pair with determined steps and a scowl on his face. He was but a few paces away when the scowl began melting into a frown of confusion. He could now see the very side of the hobbit's face as well as most of the giant's, and noticed that the two were not, in fact, kissing.

'Of course they wouldn't be kissing!' he told himself. 'Why would anyone want to kiss their burglar? Small, weak little thing that he was...'

But their burglar was pretty enough, and he wasn't exactly weak at all, was he? He had been brave, regardless of his physical deficiencies, saving Thorin...

No, that was not the point! Why was the hobbit crying? But he was smiling, too. What? Thorin was utterly baffled. He didn't know what to do, what to think, what to feel. In the end, he just stepped closer, assuming a firm expression to disguise his churning, confused emotions.

"Master Burglar," he murmured.

He wasn't at all satisfied when the little halfling jumped, far apart from the giant and closer to Thorin. Why would he be pleased by such a thing? No, it wasn't satisfaction. It was... something else. Yes, something else.

Oh, why wasn't anything making sense anymore?