"She's awake! She's awake!"

The words still rang loud and clear in Thorin's ears as he burst into Bag End, carelessly throwing open doors which laid in his way without a thought, without preamble for their state, as he hurried—rushed—put everything he had into reaching the hobbit's side, because it had been too long—it had been far too long—

—and then, when he finally saw her—everything came to a halt.

He quickly came to the conclusion that she must have helped herself into a sitting position, because instead of lying down (like she probably should have been), she sat upright, with more color in her cheeks than he had seen for a solid five days since the illness had first set in—and more strength in her bones, too, than he had originally felt in that grip she had given his hand during the third day of her suffering. There she sat, propped up against her pillows as her gaze remained on the greenery outside, soft and far-away as something else was crossing her mind.

Then, finally, and almost lazily, as if she had all the time in the world, her blue eyes drifted from the sunlit window and over to him, still standing in the doorway, where—once she fixed on his form, her body stiffened in surprise, before slowly, slowly relaxing into a warm, happy welcome.

"Hello, Thorin."

His heart eased, worry and unease deflating like a fire extinguished. He exhaled, breathing easy again for what felt like the first time in a week.

"Hello."

He dared to take a step closer, fist subconsciously gripping the item in his hand all the harder as he did so. He swallowed, eyes raking over her short form, clothed in white and soft blue. His voice felt surprisingly hoarse. "You look…far better than you did yesterday. How do you feel?"

"Good," Billa responded back with a small smile. "Not…perfect. But good enough."

Good. That was—Thorin nodded, clearing his throat. That was good.

Billa's smile widened. "But better, too…now that you're here."

No.

No—don't say that—don't say that because—

"—oh, but why are you here? Shouldn't you be…I—oh—what about the castle? The politics now that the orcs have disbanded under you? Shouldn't you be back at the Lonely Mountain to discuss that? What are you doing all the way out here in the Shire?" Billa's voice turned worried, her smile lost as she gazed at him in plain concern.

And that…almost made him lose his control over the waterworks.

But as it was, Thorin tremulously stayed put, stayed quiet, his throat aching and in pain the longer he waited there, the floorboards beneath his booted feet silent and cool.

His silence worried her, making her features lax even further as true fear began to replace what once was simple concern. "Thorin…? Is…is everything…okay?" Then her eyes suddenly widened, and her fingers gripped the bedsheets tightly as she muttered, "You aren't—wait, you aren't angry, are you—about—about Dis and—"

"—no," he murmured, shaking his head numbly. "No…I'm not…angry."

Silence.

Billa softly swallowed. "…then what is it?"

He had to.

Oh, he had to.

But he couldn't…

"…Th-Thorin…?"

So the dwarf king took a breath, inhaling deeply, and gripped the dirty rag in his hand just that bit harder as he shoved his entire soul aside, pride and kingship meaningless details, idle drivel at this point in time—because here, right now, stepping forward to her bedside, and dropping to one knee—he could bring himself to be no more than a very, very ordinary and incredibly fallible dwarf.

"He's kneeling! He's actually kneeling!"

"Shut up—! He's totally not—"

"—he totally is! See for yourself, Fi!"

"Holy—"

"—SH! I can't hear what they're saying!"

A groan, followed by the hushed giggles of several little hobbitlings who had become rather taken to the two dwarf royals, and who lingered right behind the spying pair. They all waited, huddled together, quiet and listening, eager as they were to see this—this moment on which everything seemed to pinnacle.

Kneeling.

The king was—oh gosh—the king was actually kneeling before her—and she didn't—she didn't know what to think—all of a sudden, Billa just wanted to reach out and take him by the shoulders, pulling him up because that was so strange. A—a bow was one thing, in the middle of a forest and half-serious, instigated only by wit and tease—but—but this…?

She knew what this was.

"You may not know this…and in fact, my instinct very much wishes for you…not to know it. But my conscious…disagrees. If I am to sleep a restful night once more, then…I must confess to you…a very, very grievous crime I have done against you."

A-against her?

Wait, she wasn't still dreaming, right?

"Thorin—"

"—let me finish," he ground out, teeth gritted and bared, but face lowered—and oh, didn't he look like his sister did, all those nights ago? When she had first felt compelled to do the same thing…? "Because you see, the thing is…you didn't show."

…oh…

"You didn't show, and I…failed to believe in you. And I…am sorry."

It seemed to cross his mind that he wasn't making sense—that she might not have even known there was an assembly gathered, and that they had waited—that they all had waited—and when she didn't appear, they began to worry and doubt. She might not have known that he, himself, had condemned her people—that he had been the one to give Azog the permission to offer the Challenge—when the orc had known all along that she wouldn't make it. That he…that he had been ready to be done with her…

So he told her.

In that moment, he told her everything—his doubts, his fears—his failures, and his wrongs. That he had nodded to Azog when he shouldn't have—unknowingly giving the orcs permission to commit genocide on her own people—and that he had proclaimed her a coward, as well—that he had…that he had…that he had thought ill of her, when all along, she had been nothing but kind.

…and the weight on his collarbone as he bore these sins to her: heavy, choking, slowly clogging down his head and chest as if they were made of dark-rimmed lead and steel instead of flesh and blood, sinking to the bottom of the ocean floor.

He…he didn't deserve. He didn't. He didn't.

"…I'm sorry," and oh, his voice was tight and small and not kingly at all—but it was raw. It was honest.

The broken sorrows of guilt when the repentance is utterly true and meant from the barest, ugliest center of a lowly creature…that, more so than anything else, is what this was. It caused his throat to rear in pain, stinging and tight, and caused his breaths to sharpen themselves in uneven rhythms.

(It was enough to bring him to his knees. To forget how to breathe.)

And once he was done, for a long time, no one moved, and no one spoke.

The birds outside chirped and flew by, the wind a soft caress to the window glass—but in there, that bedroom, time slowed to a stop and simply ceased to be. The silence remained, lingering as an ever-still pool of thoughts and worries, an unrippled sea of wants and hopes that stayed in the tranquil, undisturbed state of acceptance that what they wanted simply might not be able to be, because the pieces to build them with were too hard and coarse to pick up and put together.

Perhaps it was time to accept such things, time murmured. Perhaps what they had dreamed for now hurt too much, the edges jagged and rimmed with painful, mistakes and errors that both of them were familiar with, that both of them had caused.

So perhaps…they couldn't move on from here.

But then, out of the stillness, with gentle fingers, he felt her reach out for his cheek, brushing against it to communicate something…wonderful—too soft and beautiful to believe—and when he would not lift his face, because no, his hands were too scarred, she then did it for him, pressing up on his jaw gently so that he would finally look at her and meet her eye.

Disbelieving blue met greyer hues—locked, and then stayed in the echoing quiet.

"…it's okay." A barest whisper.

No it's not, he wanted to say. No it's truly, truly not—

—but then the water shifted, and she moved to pull him forward.

And when his face met her collarbone, and he felt her cheek press against his hair, her arms wrapped around him—one of them even clinging to her blanket that she had pulled so that it could pull as much of itself over as it could to lay across his larger, broader form (however, that remained to be only a corner of the blanket, tugged from what remained tucked in on the other side of the bed)—his breath hitched, and he moved to push himself away—because that rag deserved to be there, not her own blanket—

—but her arms were tight, and her voice even more so. "I…I won't lie to you, Thorin. What…what you said…it hurts. It…it does, and I…" Her small body shook with breath—and probably pain, for there was no doubt this position could be comfortable for her in her state— "…I am sorry, because I understand why you…you did not believe in me…and that is my fault."

He wanted to pull away; he wanted to shake his head and told her she was being foolish—stop this—stop this because it wasn't true. It's not your fault, it's mine, it's mine—

"—but I…" And her voice smoothed out as she inhaled and exhaled—he could feel the rise and fall of her chest from their close embrace, and she was too dear for words. "…I know you are sorry—and I know that you saved my life from Bolg on that battlefield…so I know—I know—that you have done good, and that you also did not intend for evil to befall my friends…" Her voice shook dangerously. "…and I feel like I know your heart…or, at least, part of it…so I can trust it…" It once more dropped to the barest of whispers, a feather-light voice, soft as wind. "…but I am afraid."

And he knew what she meant—knew so well, because he, too, felt much the same way.

Afraid that something like this would happen again. Afraid that these signs—these things that have happened before they could even began a life together—would signal only more distrust and confusion and pain for the future. Afraid that there will always be second-guessings and doubts and fears for as long as they live because they were never able to trust from the very start…

…afraid that the idea of "they" would simply never work.

But there was Something there—Something that remained—a lingering Hope and Promise and Love, ever stubborn, ever persistent as they are, which whispered that maybe…that didn't have to be the case.

Maybe it would work.

The only remaining question was: would he dare…?

Could he dare? Could this…be something he was willing to struggle for and bend for—to put his hands into the dirt for, to dig and to build with sweat and tears until their love…worked? Until it could grow and reach the sky, healthy, strong—as immovable as a rooted tree? Could he work for this until life was better, and they were happy and could possibly be, once more, carefree and side-by-side?

The answer came with surprising ease, sliding from his lips as he straightened and pulled back from her arms to grasp the sides of her face with care. She looked up at him with broken, open blue eyes that invited him to see her soul, and his own shuddered in response at such nakedness.

But he was willing.

Oh, was he willing.

"Never again," he finally assured with trembling honesty, for once in his life, his entire being as delicate as glass as he brought their foreheads together, close and breathing the same air—this, the tenderest moment his soul had ever known—vulnerable and weak, so startlingly so that it made him uncomfortable—here, at his rawest, most basest state of his being in which he was nothing but a breathing clump of mass that inhabited a very faultful soul. "Never again—never again—I will not fail you and fail to trust you—not without trying to find you if you cannot be found again—never again will I stand by while harm comes to you or your people—"

"—I won't lie to you," Billa interrupted, knowing what this was—sharply aware, and oh, her heart tightened to painful, tugging degrees, the fragile chords holding it in place straining with the force and her eyes became dangerously close to tears as she gasped back, "Please, I won't ever lie—I want to be honest with you—always—never again will I hide something from you—you are too valuable—"

Valuable? He? No—she was the one who was valuable; who's worth was beyond measure to him, and he couldn't—

"—I would have you know my heart—"

"—And I would! With the utmost care, I'd know it—if only you would know mine, as well; if you would know it and trust it—"

"—I would." Thorin's limps trembled as a single tear worked its way free, and he closed his eyes fiercely, a tidal wave of emotions flooding over him that made him both so uncomfortable and alive—fiercely so like never before, as if he was standing on top of the peak of Lonely Mountain and was inhaling all of the world's sky into his lungs. "Billa, I…" Oh—this was it. This was it. He had to—he— "—will you…will you please….I know it may not—not be a spotless offering—and it is not under the best circumstances—I have no jewels to crown you with in declaration of this—nothing to make what I have done against you better than the rag in my hands—but if you would have me, anyway—a…a humble and imperfect dwarf on his knees for you—I—"

And she knew.

The words had not even come, but Billa Baggins had understood, her eyes wet and tear tracks falling down and oh, it was the most beautiful thing Thorin had yet known. "—y-yes…yes until the end of my days—I would be yours for every day of every year until the sun fails to shine—if only so I can try and try, and continue trying to learn and know you until my transport, fickle as it is, fails to be—Thorin—I—"

And the space closed between them.

Their lips met, fireworks shooting off, sparking in between nerves and senses all while in the middle of tears, in the middle of a small bedroom of a very ordinary hobbit, who had done very extraordinary things.

And in the middle of every worry, every fear and every doubt—a bridge between what they knew, and what they didn't, but what they believed in, and what they would strive for, their lips crashed together in a symphony of blessed promises and lifelong journeys. It was warm, it was deep, it was shaky, yet it was sure—it tilted Billa's head back and up, and made Thorin lean in even lower, pressing firmer and prying their lips to an open embrace.

I love you, I love you, and I am afraid, but I will be brave for you, and I will make this work for you.

It was the most perfect thing either of them had ever known.

"They're…they're kissing!"

Several little hobbit children gasped in astonishment; Kili only scrambled for purchase to buy back the corner of the window they were peeking through. "What? What? Are you serious?"

"Don't look! This is a private moment!"

"But you're looking!"

"I'm older; I can totally handle such things."

"Hardly; you're only older by, like, five years."

"Still. You might get traumatized."

"...that's ridiculous."

"No it's not."

"Yes it—"

While the giggling of the hobbit faunts around the squabbling two increased, two other hands reached out, grabbing each of the boy's shoulders to yank them back and away from the window, much to their startled and moderately annoyed surprise. "Bofur—!" they whined.

The hatted dwarf merely grinned, wrapping his arms around the two's shoulders as he forcefully continued to lead them away. The hobbit faunts followed them, on their heels and listening to every word as the older dwarf chided, "Now, now—let them have their peace. They need it, what with everything both of them have just gone through—"

"—but they kissed!" one of the hobbit lasses cried out, like it was the most incredible news.

"Mr. Bofur, Miss Baggins kissed a dwarf!"

"The king, too! He was the king! She kissed the king!"

"He has a beard, too! Does that make it tickle?"

"Ew! Gross…"

"Does this mean they're gonna get married, now?"

Kili and Fili couldn't help but grin in excitement, eyes expectantly on Bofur as the dwarf scrambled to a stop, trying to come up with a response to that. "W-well…it…I…"

"Please tell us yes!"

"Oh, that'd be so cool! We'd know the queen!"

"And she'd be so pretty with a crown…!"

Bofur glared at the two on either side of him, who very obviously had been the ones to get the little children in such an excited tizzy over the possible relationship between their neighbor and the king of Erebor. But seeing as how they were going to give him no help with this answer, he finally resorted to sighing, pressing fingertips to his forehead as he responded, "…th-they might...but it—it might be some time though," he hurried added to their growing gasps of wonder, "because there's a lot they have to sort out…you know…"

Immediately, there came a round of disappointed, dispirited "aw's" from the young hobbit-folk, as they peered upward at the kind dwarf people.

It made Fili chuckle and grin, even as he squatted down to the little faunts' level, their eager eyes and small bodies crowding closer just to hear what the tall dwarf would say. "But," he told them as if departing to them a great secret; they quickly hushed each other to crane their ears and hear better, "if you ask me…I'd say there's no doubt that they love each other very, very much."

"Yeah—so it's bound to happen eventually," Kili nodded in agreement, haunching down beside his brother in the middle of the small huddle. "One day, whenever that may be."

There came several squeals of excitement at that—mainly from the girls before them—as well as a few grimaces from the hobbit boys, who looked at each other and groaned at such gross ideas as kissing and love and marriage. But the sight only made the dwarven brothers grin at each other.

Because this—this infectious happiness, so easy to obtain from hobbits more than any other folk—this is what they had to look forward to.

While in the process of losing such physically strong and intimidating allies such as the orcs, as Dain was dealing with politically back at the Lonely Mountain, they now had gained an even fiercer pact with the joyful and kind, homey hobbit-folk—and not only them, but a tentative—very, very tentative alliance—had been formed with the elves.

And it was a reward, everyone was now able to see from a week spent within the hobbit-kind's lands, and being healed by the elves' incredible herbal and surgical skill, that was far more valuable than war-trained armies and well-forged weapons—it was comfort, food, healing, and peace all rolled into one combined package that they now could share, appreciate, and delight in rather than being isolated and untouched like the two had been before.

The people would scarcely grow hungry again. They would never be attacked by a dragon again. Sicknesses would not be so fierce an unseen enemy again. The orcs were far too few to prove a formidable force for a long time—and it was all…an overall pleasant future, they decided—the one that loomed overhead of them, as bright as the sun in the sky upon their brows.

As pleasant a future as the unknown that they had yet to face could get.

Crystal's Notes: And so we are almost ready to conclude our story, dear ones. D: I'm rather...sad to see this finish itself. But all the same, I hope you've enjoyed what has transpired, and that this reunion/proposal between Thorin and Billa has been to your expectations. (hug hug hug) It has been a rough journey, but they have survived, and can still live and love to tell the tale.

There isn't, really, much to say here. xD Other than, of course, for you all a HUGE thank you. You wonderful, amazing people, you. As well as a bid for each of you to have a good day.

So then, with all that said, I suppose I will see you all in the epilogue! :)

PS: I'm leaning towards a sequel, if that's all right with you all. How does that sound? Although don't expect for this series/AU to be the only Hobbit story I ever publish. Ideas have been brewing, and I do believe I have two more (separate) Hobbit-oneshots which have been brewing to put out before the sequel is published. But we will get there, my friends! :D I do believe that the journey will continue, if only for one story more. So stay with me? Until then?

One adventure more? :)