Disclaimer: Not mine. And the prompt came from the kink meme on lj. For the lack of hyperlinking: prompt post 10, p.5.
Warnings: PTSD, angst and political intrigue.
AN: Thank you for your continued attention – I hope you still enjoy reading, even though the updates take time and I'm not very good at getting back to reviewers. That said, thank you very, very much for reading and reviewing!
The Price of Gold
Chapter XXIX
A choked sob tears itself from Bilbo's throat and the hobbit collapses against Thorin's chest. Confusion whirls through Thorin's mind, his body reacts automatically. His hands come up and he pulls the slight body closer – as if his hands could soothe Bilbo.
Bilbo does not protest, and but for the slight shaking of his shoulders he barely moves. Thorin stares blankly at the wall ahead.
They kissed.
In spite of everything. Or because of everything?
He does not know, cannot even begin to fathom the answer. A long time ago – before the Arkenstone, before the Goldsickness, there may have been something growing between them. Yet these are memories from another lifetime; one Thorin can barely recall. Even his recollections have grown twisted and tainted, and he can no longer trust them.
One of his hand moves up to stroke Bilbo's back while another curls into the soft hair. Bilbo's hands clutch at the fabric of Thorin's tunic so tightly the fabric might rip. Come apart like everything is doing right now.
And the pieces are too jagged and deformed for any hope that they may ever come together again. Whatever was between them, Thorin destroyed with his own hands. He has no right – still should not be sitting here. Should have called Oin or Bofur or any other dwarf really. That Bilbo sits here now is his fault –
And yet –
Bilbo kissed him. Is this the prelude to the end? The place where things come apart one last time; the conclusion to their tragedy?
"Thorin," Bilbo mumbles and stirs, "Thorin." His voice is thick, scratchy and when he tilts his head up his eyes are red-rimmed and wet with more tears. Grief has drawn stark lines on his face, and Thorin wishes he could brush them all away.
Almost mockingly the phantom image of the hobbit that ran after them arises; hearty and healthy, a wide smile on his face. The opposite of the hobbit before him, really. He should have relinquished him a long time ago.
But all that Thorin finds himself capable of doing is holding on.
"I … I'm sorry," Bilbo says and attempts to detach himself. Thorin can see his expression grow shuttered and his heart clenches. "I shouldn't have –"
"No," Thorin interrupts, surprising himself at how hoarse his own voice sounds, "No, Bilbo, please." He barely even grasps what he is asking, but he pushes on regardless. "I … Please don't do this. I know, I have no right to ask this of you. Shouldn't even be here, really."
The chuckle sounds nearly hysterical. His pulse speeds.
"But, Bilbo, I – whatever I can do – whatever any of us can do – please tell us. Do not hold back," Thorin pleads, "Do not keep this to yourself. We – I – whatever we can do, we will."
Bilbo has stopped in his movement and watches Thorin with wide eyes. Something unsteady flickers within them. "Whatever I wish?" he echoes, shakily, "What if I –" Hands tug at Thorin's tunic again, trying to pull him closer. "What if I asked for this?"
The glint in Bilbo's eyes is not quite sane. Thorin swallows, his throat suddenly dry. "Then I will comply," he mumbles, tilting his head just so.
Bilbo flinches back as if burned. "Don't do that," he hisses, "Don't – don't act like a doormat! Stop making me the evil party in this!" The accusation pierces right through Thorin's chest; this is the last thing he wanted.
"I'm not, Bilbo," he stammers and catches the hobbit by the wrists before Bilbo can disentangle himself, "I only want to – to help."
Bilbo glares at him. "So you'd do whatever I say? What if I asked you to hand me your crown? Your life?"
Thorin grinds his teeth, but does not loosen his grip. "I would," he vows, reaffirming his promise, "Anything you ask."
Bilbo tries to shrug him off, face twisting. "So that's what this all is. In the end, everything is about making amends, isn't it? Earning forgiveness," Bilbo spits, "I should make good use of that, really. A King at my beck and call." He shakes his head, visibly disgusted.
"And here I thought my company was appreciated," he says, "But it's all about honor in the end. And what I held for … for friendship must have been an illusion." His voice cracks, and the pain comes through.
Thorin's eyes widen. He leans in. "Never, Bilbo," he says, "Never. I – this is not about me, never. I only want to –"
"Then why are you acting like this?" Bilbo interrupts harshly and fresh tears glint in his eyes, "Have we been friends or did I imagine it?"
Thorin's mind screeches to an abrupt halt. He's not dared to allow himself to contemplate any equal relationship with Bilbo, not since that terrible day when his mind allowed madness to rule. It wouldn't be honorable, wouldn't be fair – would be asking for too much. He could never –
"We, I," he stutters, because Bilbo wants an answer, and Thorin feels if he fails now he will lose Bilbo forever. They all will lose their little burglar, and a part of Thorin that yet dimly recalls what he wants knows this cannot be allowed to happen.
"Of course," he hears himself mumble, "We – I certainly thought of you as a friend. More dear than a friend, truly, but I cannot dare hope that after what I did you would even contemplate giving me that chance once again."
Something in his words must have been right. Tension seeps from Bilbo's frame and his face relaxes slightly.
"I think that is for me to decide," Bilbo says, quietly, "Unless you rather wouldn't…"
Thorin's throat closes up, "You…"
Bilbo looks away. "It's as I said, Thorin. I can't forgive you, but I can't hate you either. It would probably be easier if I could, but I don't."
"Do you want to?" Thorin asks. He could probably make Bilbo hate him. Only he doesn't want to.
Bilbo looks at him oddly. "No, no. Thorin, you saw what happens when I act on what I want."
"That," Thorin stammers before he can quite stop himself, "That kiss was what –"
Bilbo flinches. "I didn't know what came over me," he answers evasively, "I didn't mean to."
But a part of him did, and some flame lights up in Thorin's chest. A desire to bring clarity into this mess, to puzzle things out. To find out if Bilbo desires what has once again taken root in Thorin's heart.
"I did not push you away," Thorin says quietly.
"You weren't too shocked?" Bilbo asks promptly, wide eyes finding Thorin's, and recognizing the honesty in them. "You – oh. Oh."
A faint flush rises to his cheeks. Thorin's heart swells, while Bilbo primly retracts his arms and glances to his lap. "Then I really shouldn't have done it. Sorry, Thorin, I – I don't think we should do this."
The others would have long since taken Thorin's head, had they been here to witness how forward Thorin has behaved. He shakes his head in agreement. "We shouldn't."
Green eyes come up to find his again. They swim with pain; the same pain that is tearing apart Thorin's heart. Even if anything had ever been possible between, it is best to move on. Bilbo mumbles something, but then shakes his head.
"I'm tired," he says, and slowly sinks back against the pillows.
"Then I will not keep you any longer," Thorin returns and makes to stand. Bilbo reaches out for him, but stops himself before he can take hold of Thorin's tunic.
"Would you stay?" Bilbo asks, "Just for a moment. Tell me a bit about what's happening. It feels like an eternity since I last was outside. Is the snowstorm still raging?"
Thorin settles back into his chair. He takes Bilbo's hand and draws it into his lap, rubbing the skin to warm it up. Bilbo does not flinch, instead closes his eyes and relaxes.
"The storm is moving on," Thorin begins softly, "Oin thinks it will have passed by midday tomorrow. There are boats from the south waiting to cross the long lake. The boats you and Fili commissioned. They made a swift journey and apparently bring fresh food."
Bilbo makes a small noise, though he seems to be falling asleep. He looks eerily small and fragile like this. Thorin shudders and makes himself continue talking. "Bombur is planning on using the fresh ingredients for a feast. They all agree the feast should be to honor the coronation, but I'm not sure."
Because the coronation will require Bilbo attending and playing his part. Laid out here, pale and thin, Thorin fears what this further burden will do to him.
"We could always celebrate being alive," he continues, "Or the successful revival of the old alliance between Erebor and Dale. There are various things we could celebrate, after all." Reasons that do not involve his coronation.
Bilbo's breathing has evened out. Thorin carefully settles the hand back on Bilbo's chest and draws the covers up a little higher.
"Sleep well," he murmurs before gliding from the room.
Gloin does not feel old very often. By dwarf standards, he's in his best years, and many of the company were a good deal older. But sitting in conference with Fili, Kili and Ori makes him feel positively ancient.
"Fror's strewing rumors," Kili reports unhappily, his tone a sharp contrast to his relaxed posture. If one didn't know better, they'd see three young dwarves lounging around; Kili has his fee on the table, Fili rests his head on folded arms and Ori broods over a mess of scribbles.
"Undermining Thorin or Bilbo?" Ori inquires without looking up.
"Both, I think," Kili replies. Fili sighs, and Ori shifts one of his papers. "One rumor, or various different stories?"
Gloin wonders, once more, what he's here for.
"Various," Kili says, "Bofur, Bard and Nori each had different stories. The mountain's rife with fantastic tales."
"Why won't they just accept our story?" Fili sighs, "It'd be so easy."
"They're bored," Ori responds without missing a beat, "They've probably accepted our version, but anything with the smell of a forbidden secret clinging to it is terribly tempting at these times."
Fili grumbles and shuts his eyes again. Dark shadows cover the skin underneath them, and he appears haggard. The last weeks have eaten away at him.
"Do you think Fror will make a move before the coronation?" Gloin asks.
Kili shrugs, Fili sighs again and grumbles: "Probably."
Ori glances up. "He's losing power and standing. Once Thorin's crowned, going against him will not be easy."
"The coronation is in two days," Gloin mutters, "What can he do?" He wishes the coronation was done and over, and they all could relax a little. At least the weather outside is improving, though with winter having settled in, the Laketown folks will likely stay a while longer.
"A lot," Kili snorts, fiddling with the hemline of his shirt. It's a rather fine garment, Gloin notices – and Kili does not look all that comfortable in it. Like everything in Erebor, now that they have claimed it, they all find the kingdom is claiming a price higher than they expected. And there is a small part of Gloin wondering if he should not write home and tell his family to remain – remain lest they become pawns in the court intrigues of Erebor.
"Actually," Ori suggests and leans forward, "I was thinking about how we could undermine him. We need to distract everybody from the rumors Fror is trying to spread – people are bored and need things to speculate on and there are only so many versions of the quest that can be told. We need to give them something new."
Fili straightens. "You have an idea?"
Gloin leans back. Ori's eyes glint, and he wonders what happened to the timid scribe that set out from the Blue Mountains. Of all dwarves in Thorin's company, Ori turns out to be the one right at home in the power gambits that steer kingdoms and countries.
"Yes," Ori says confidently, "Your uncle just needs to agree. But if he accepts, we could not only kill Fror's rumors, but also win over those nobles yet undecided."
Kili's eyes widen, and Gloin, too, glances up in surprise. "How?"
Ori smiles.
Bilbo sighs as another chest is delivered to his room. The dwarves trudge out, but Dori stays, taking in Bilbo's pallor and the dark circles underneath his eyes.
The last nights have not been kind.
Now that he has made up his mind to not hate Thorin – to give into that foolish notion and try to salvage what he can – his mind has surged up with a fury. He doesn't think he's slept more than three hours perhaps, and even on the brink between sleep and wakefulness the nightmares followed.
A part of him has wished to go and see Thorin. See whether the panic that leaves him breathless and sweat-soaked in the night will rear up during daytime too, or whether the Thorin of his nightmares is a monster of his own mind.
"Have you seen Oin?" Dori asks and draws Bilbo from his dark ruminations.
Bilbo nods. "First thing in the morning." He doesn't much like the prodding, though Oin means well. At least the bruises on his face have started healing. The bandages have been taken off, and the swelling has gone down – he won't look an utter fright at Thorin's coronation.
"And he didn't keep you?" Dori inquires.
"He can come into my rooms anytime he wants," Bilbo says, "There's not much reason for me to stay in the healing rooms." Especially since now they are growing crowded with other patients. Men and women from Laketown sick with cold. Sprained ankles, broken fingers, and the other everyday injuries that always occur.
Dori nods, still assessing Bilbo unhappily. "Well, if you're alright, shall we go through the coronation?"
"He's not going to talk unless we make a deal," Nori huffs as he sits down in the chair across Balin's desk, "His deal, to be precise. Figured just how keen we're on seeing the old man judged, so he's going to barter his way out of the dungeons."
Balin doesn't look up from the report he's writing. Just hours ago Bard dropped his catalogue of Dale's stores and stocks on his desk. With Dain's number of how much grain the Iron Hills can ship over winter, it'll now only take simple math to if they need to send a caravan south again.
"What about his compatriot?" Balin inquires.
"Keeps silent," Nori replies with a shrug, "Has probably figured relying on Haugar is his best shot at walking out of this with both his beard and head attached."
Balin hums. "Which they can't," he decrees calmly, "Thorin cannot show weakness now. They must lose their bears at least."
Nori sees the reason. Yet it still takes him by surprise to hear Balin so swiftly and easily condemn them. "Then Fror walks. It'll only be a question of time until he tries again."
"Yes, though I believe your little brother may be preparing something to spite him," Balin replies,
"Fror's power is breaking up. Once he's sufficiently weakened, we won't need Haugar to accuse him."
"Ori?" Nori asks, momentarily perplexed, "What'd he do?"
Balin looks up with a small smile on his face. "Hinted that following the coronation Thorin will appoint ministers and hire staff."
Nori chuckles. "Which will leave them scurrying to gain Thorin's favor. And since he declared Bilbo more important than the Arkenstone, it'll leave all that spoke out against him in a rather unpopular situation. Clever."
Balin writes down another line, and then pushes the document aside, satisfied.
"So, will he?" Nori inquires, "Appoint ministers?"
"I think so," Balin replies.
Nori leans back, whistles. "Then we'll have a recently appointed Minister of Justice – who's bound to be eager to please Thorin – judging Fror and his cronies. Nice."
Bad idea, Thorin tells himself even as he raps his knuckles against the sturdy wood of Bilbo's door. He shouldn't have come here.
"It's open," Bilbo calls from within.
Thorin takes a deep breath and enters. A fire flickers merrily in the fireplace, a curious assortment of comfortable chairs placed around a low table before it. Whoever picked the rooms for Bilbo did a fine job – they are spacious, and yet do not feel too vast. Not like the King's chambers Thorin does not truly wish to return to tonight.
"Thorin," Bilbo greets, paling, "What brings you here?"
He shouldn't have come, Thorin realizes. The coronation tomorrow has all their nerves blank, and Bilbo more than most carries a huge burden. His presence is neither helpful nor required.
"Apologies," he says with a shake of his head, "I'm afraid I allowed my feet to lead me. I won't disturb you any longer."
"Won't you stay for a cup of tea?" Bilbo asks, gesturing at the chairs, "Unless you have an appointment elsewhere?"
Thorin swallows drily. Then his feet move forward and he sinks into one of the chairs. It's old, groans under his weight, but the cushions enfold him and he's sighing as tension seeps from his bones. Bilbo settles opposite him, and smiles.
"Long day?" he asks.
"Terribly," Thorin returns, closing his eyes and shifting just so. The knots in his back begin to unravel.
"Well, it's a big day tomorrow," Bilbo says and pushes a cup of steaming tea toward Thorin. "Try this one, Bombur said they found it somewhere in the stores. It's rather nice."
Thorin takes a sip, letting the flavors caress his tongue. "It is," he agrees as the warmth settles in his stomach, "And I'll be glad once tomorrow is done and over."
Bilbo chuckles. "Aren't we all?" He takes a sip, and Thorin can see the mirth vanish from his eyes. "Do you think Fror will stop his machinations then?"
Thorin swallows. Seeing the kernel of fear – hearing the question Bilbo doesn't voice – he wants to dissuade that idea. But he must shake his head. "It will weaken him, but he is powerful. Though now that we're watching him, he cannot attempt anything untoward."
At least he should not. He already managed to puppeteer two attempts on Bilbo's life.
"You could stay with Fili and Kili," Thorin suggests, "He'll not dare do anything with them present." And his nephews will protect their burglar, too. Even from him if they must.
"Last I saw them they seemed fairly busy as well."
"That can –"
"Thorin," Bilbo says quietly, "I cannot forever rely on the kindness of others. And I will not impose on them in during these dreadful days when they already have so much on their plates."
Thorin sighs and deflates. "I just wish I could do something to help you." The shadows under Bilbo's eyes are deep and dark and Thorin would like nothing better than to wipe them away. "At least to help you sleep."
Bilbo smiles sadly. "You aren't sleeping very well either, are you?"
Thorin doesn't say anything in return. Between the worries gnawing on his heart, the things that demand his attention and the nightmares those last few nights have not been restful. The sleep Oin forced him to catch has all but worn off.
"You know what," Bilbo says and pushes his own teacup back, "It may be a foolish notion – but how about you stay here?"
Thorin looks up, surprised. "What?"
Bilbo twists in his seat. "Well, it's probably a terrible idea. But that way, at least if we don't sleep, we can always talk."
Thorin blinks. It's a terrible idea.
Just as terrible as kissing Bilbo.
He's still the reason behind all the terror Bilbo endured. Madness or no, it were his hands that pushed Bilbo in that chest, and just thinking of it makes his stomach twist, and he cannot, cannot in good conscience expect any welcome here. Should never have come, should not be –
Bilbo watches him attentively. His posture is wary – as it should – and yet he does not retreat.
And reason fails Thorin once more. "Alright."
tbc
