Bilbo was afraid.
The Company had reached the guard-camp outside the Mountain with the fading of evening's light, and now, some hours later, were recovering somewhat from their recent escapades. Upon their arrival at the camp, some of their party had immediately gone to sleep in various corners, while the rest, too worked up to sleep, planned. Bilbo readily admitted (at least to himself) that the stone of the guardroom's floor did not look overly appetizing as a sleeping area. Though it might be better if he could cuddle up with Thorin the way Nori and Dwalin were doing, sharing blankets and body heat and comfort.
But no. Thorin's new manner was frankly frightening, and Bilbo wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be near him in this state. He knew that he did not have the only hold on Thorin's heart – he was a king, and his kingdom had to come first over nearly any personal concerns, after all – but this was different. Lust for the treasure, the gold, the Arkenstone, they were all stewing in Thorin's mind like rot eating away at an apple. Bilbo feared for Thorin, for himself, for the Quest. He feared that Thorin would do something totally untoward, something that he wouldn't be able to recover from. His current behavior, while unusual, was not so bad that it could not be fixed with a few heartfelt apologies, especially to his nephews, who were comparatively unharmed by the goldlust and had borne the brunt of Thorin's anger several times for trying to get him to talk about other things.
Bilbo was afraid.
oOoOoOoOoOo
When he is hanging over the battlements, being shaken like a rabbit, Bilbo is so far past terror that he has a surprising moment of clarity.
This is the end.
The end of hope, the end of happiness, the end of what-might-have-been. The look in Thorin's eyes … despair, loss, hurt, anger, all commingled with the grief of a lover betrayed.
So this is the price of the Arkenstone, of peace. So be it, though it near to breaks my heart.
oOoOoOoOoOo
Bilbo wept until tears were gone, and then sat, shaking, outside the tent where his beloved lay, growing cold and stiff. Pain and death, death and pain. Thorin was gone, gone where he could not follow.
Nori and Dwalin approached him after a while. Disheveled but miraculously unharmed except for minor wounds, they sat next to him silently. Dwalin seemed to be in shock, and Nori, hair a frightful mess, clung to his husband in an unusual show of affection, clearly relieved that they had both survived the day without any major injuries. After some time, Nori seemed to come to himself somewhat, and nudged Dwalin to make him stand. Nori looked intently at Bilbo for a long moment, and then grabbed his arm, motioning for him to follow. The three made their way to a food tent (which, along with the healing tents, had been the first things set up by the ever-practical dwarves after the battle), ate, and then collapsed in one of the nearby sleeping areas.
0O0O0O0O0O0
It was springtime, late enough in the season that one might consider calling it early summer. Bilbo had retuned in summer, and had spent a good deal of the its winding-down, as well as all of autumn and a goodly portion of winter, attempting to get his affairs in order. It was slow going, but progress was being made. His cousins despaired of him (except for the Tooks and the children), his neighbors (saving the good-natured Gamgees) looked at him like he'd grown an extra head, and his lawyer happily soaked up all the extra fees that he received for his assistance.
In short, things were going back to normal – at least, on the outside. Bilbo found that Gandalf was correct – he had not returned unchanged from the Quest. His adventure had woken his bravery, his sense of adventure, his wishes for new sights. But it had brought pain, despair, loss. What affected Bilbo the most now was appreciation for the comforts of home – the kettle on the fire, sizzling bacon, a warm bed, and all the pocket-handkerchiefs he could ever want. And if he was painfully reminded of what he had lost, he knew that it had been worth it. Then he would carefully finger a strangely-made knife that he kept at his belt, or a pair of arrowheads worked into a windchime right by the kitchen window, or a square ring kept on a chain with a round in his pocket, and sigh.
Hearing his kettle sing, Bilbo hurried to the kitchen. He had made scones, and put the kettle on so he could enjoy a cuppa (liberally splashed with brandy to chase away morbid thoughts) with them while his baked goods were hot. He had set out his teacup and was preparing to pour when he heard a thump at his door. It sounded almost like – there it was again! And if that noise wasn't dwarf-boots against his doorframe, he was a fish. He'd know that ungodly noise anywhere. It looked like some of the Company had taken him up on his offer of a place to stay – and, in fact, had arrived just in time for tea. Bilbo hurried to the door, opening it to find … a near-exact copy of Thorin Oakenshield.
"So … this is the burglar," the stranger replied in a voice that was low by most standards but lighter by far than most of the Company's (except for Ori and Kíli, that is, who as far as Bilbo could tell were still in the last vestiges of Dwarven puberty when the Quest had started). The figure humphed loudly, and looked around Bilbo's smial skeptically. "Dwalin said that this place was easy to find. I lost my way … twice."
Bilbo's jaw dropped. What's going on? This can't be …
Bilbo's resolved firmed, and he looked his erstwhile guest in the eye. "If I may ask, who are you?" He purposely avoided using gendered pronouns, remembering a few choice conversations with Balin about how dwarven females travelled abroad, as well as with Fíli and Kíli about their mother, the remarkable Lady Dís.
"I am Dís, daughter of Thráin. I believe you made the acquaintance of several members of my family?"
Bilbo bowed deeply. "It is wonderful to meet you at last, Lady Dís. It was my honor and my privilege to travel with your kin." Bilbo gestured at his foyer. "May I offer you some tea? There's a fresh pot on the fire."
Dís' smile was almost identical to that that had so often graced her younger son's face. "It would be my pleasure, Master Baggins."
Finis
A/N:
Welp, that's all for this one, people. It kind of angsted out of control there at the end.