Bilbo and Thorin had a pleasant lunch together, with no lack of delicious food, or conversation. But when it was all said and done, Bilbo started wondering if perhaps there wouldn't be times when they would be lacking in topics for conversation, now that Thorin was feeling better and he would obviously be awake for a greater part of the day. The thought swirled in his mind like a twist of wind that cleared away all connections with the quiet world, where no storms raged and everything was in its place.

"Bilbo?"

A voice came through to him in the storm, clear and strong, stronger than the wind.

"Yes," he said, a little startled. He looked into Thorin's eyes. They were just as clear as his voice had been, clear as the Shire sky on a young summer morning, and the same light shone in them. Suddenly, there was no more storm.

"Is there something the matter?"

"No, no, nothing… Well, I should take this back," he said, indicating the remainders of a well-enjoyed meal that lay on the table between them.

"You can ask Bombur, or Dori," said Thorin.

"No, no, it's fine. I can do it. They've cleared enough tables for one day."

Thorin smiled at him in his characteristic concealed fashion. His smiles always had something hidden under their surface. It had been one of the things that had shaken Bilbo out of his comfort the first time he had met Thorin in his home in the Shire. Bilbo himself was no stranger to multiple meanings hidden under words, but most of the people he met around the Shire were simple folk that lived their uncomplicated lives out in the open. He was unused to eyes and faces that shared a likeness to the deep lakes of the mountains, rippling only slightly on the surface, but harbouring vast currents underneath.

Bilbo smiled back as he gathered the empty plates. "So, what shall we do today? I could read something to you, but I don't think there's any book around here that I can actually read."

Thorin's smile widened, and with it the lake of meanings under it. "I need to have a talk with… everyone, today," said Thorin, his tone gaining a weighty note of responsibility that had become very familiar to Bilbo. "Taking Erebor back was only part of the problem, the only part I seriously thought about, to be honest."

And he was honest. Bilbo could see a thread of light streaking deep into his thoughts and illuminating them briefly, at least the part of them that held worry for the year ahead.

"You mean making this into a place to live again," said Bilbo.

Thorin nodded.

"Well, it's not so bad now."

"It is not a place to live a lifetime, and more," said Thorin.

Bilbo understood that he didn't just mean the year ahead. He meant all the years to come in Erebor, for himself, his people there and in the Blue Mountains, and those who hadn't yet been born. They all needed Erebor to be a home again, a place they could live in and thrive.

"No, I suppose not," said Bilbo.

Thorin recovered his smile, but it didn't carry back much of its unspoken mystery. "I hope there is a time when you can read to me to fill our days, but that time is not now."

Bilbo could not stop himself from blushing a hot shade of red. He preferred not to think of everything that lay not very deeply beneath Thorin's words. It was enough to concentrate on his self-appointed task of clearing the table and on the fact that there was plenty for both of them to do in the near future.

"I suppose not," he said, cringing at repeating himself, and keeping his eyes low on the pile of plates and trays in his arms. Then, after a prolonged moment of silence from Thorin, he looked back to him and saw no real reason for him to blush after all. Thorin's expression was now devoid of anything hidden, showing him nothing but kindness and love. "I, well," Bilbo faltered, recovering his breath and the pale roses of his cheeks, "should I stay?"

"Of course, you can stay if you want."

"I mean, do I have to?"

"No, you do not have to."

"All right, then. I might… take a look outside in the meantime."

"That sounds like a fine idea," said Thorin, a faint echo in his voice of wanting to join him.

Bilbo wanted to say that there would be a time for that as well, sooner rather than later, but Thorin had something else to say instead.

"Since you mentioned reading, perhaps you could help us with our library, when you need something to do," said Thorin.

"Oh?"

Bilbo remembered having a conversation with Balin about Thorin's gold sickness in a dusty room full of cobweb-cloaked shelves, some toppled over, some still standing, but all holding thick tomes and rolled-up scrolls.

"You do not need to know our language. I can ask Ori to work with you. But we need to have the library cleaned and restored at some point, preferably soon."

"I imagine you have a lot of important documents in there," said Bilbo.

"We do."

"I'll be happy to help, yes. It sounds like something I would love to do, in fact."

"I thought as much," said Thorin.

Bilbo smiled back again. "Well, I should take these to the kitchen. Shall I tell… everyone that you want to speak to them?"

Thorin nodded, laughing quietly.

"Does everyone include Fili and Kili?"

"Always."

"I see. They are to inherit this whole place, aren't they?"

"Yes, they are," said Thorin, a note of pride seeping into his voice.

For all their youth and all the rambunctiousness that came with it, Fili and Kili were the future kings of the Dwarves of Middle Earth, and Thorin had taken back Erebor for them, too, the city he had been born in, and the city they had the right to live in and rule. Even after having come all that way and learned so much about the ways of the Dwarves, it was hard for Bilbo to really grasp the idea of someone being or becoming a king, of holding the fate of many others in one's hands. Even looking right at Thorin, who was exactly that, a king, it was still hard to really get his head around the idea of it. He himself had held the fate of Thorin's people in his hands for a while, he knew that. So much of their future had depended on him and his abilities as a burglar after all, but that had been different. It had been more than any Hobbit of his time had done to leave his mark upon the world outside the borders of the Shire, but it had still been a singular event, a one-time choice that he had made because part of him wanted to see what lay beyond his own land, and another part wanted to help this bunch of exiled Dwarves. It was nothing like taking on a lifetime responsibility for their welfare, however, and that was exactly what Thorin had been gifted with at birth, and what had been passed on to Fili and Kili. It could have been easily seen as a burden, and perhaps it was, but that was not what he had heard, now or ever, in Thorin's voice, or what he had seen in Fili or Kili's more serious demeanour.

Bilbo nodded slowly to Thorin, taking his temporary leave and promising to convey his wish for a serious conversation about the future of Erebor to those concerned, and walked out of the room. Compared to what still felt like a burden to him, caring for an entire race, the pile of dishes in his arms, the remains of his lunch with Thorin, felt very light and easy to bear to the Royal Kitchen.

Not to any great surprise, he found Bombur and Dori there, who promptly offered to take over his unwashed dishes. Bilbo refused, sending them to spread word of Thorin's plans instead, and washed the dishes himself. It seemed better that way, more equitable. It was their world, after all, that had to be put back together in the coming year. It was his as well, in a way. He knew that he was welcome there and he actually felt welcome, like he was part of it, even, but it was still their world more than it was his, and what Thorin had in mind to say was more for their ears and their able arms. Of course, their able arms were already aptly employed in cleaning up after the great Yuletide feast from the night before, which Bilbo had gladly offered to help with. He was still helping the Dwarves with a lot of things, it seemed, the things he was good at besides burglary.

He had told Thorin that he preferred to go outside rather than stay for the big council meeting, but now he felt like going to see the library first, another item that he was qualified to help with in the restoration of Erebor. He had not been there since before the battle. He didn't remember much of what it looked like, just that it smelled of dust.

It smelled less like that a month later. There was even more light inside, some of it natural, and no more cobwebs that he could see. The shelves were still mostly in disarray, but it definitely looked like someone had already begun cleaning the place. And as Bilbo advanced into the room, it became very likely that he would find out who that someone was right away. He could clearly hear the soft and familiar sound of pages being turned. He inched farther into the room to see where the sound was coming from and who was turning the pages. He found Ori hunched over a table and leafing through a thick book with dark, bulky covers.

"Hello," he said, in a gentle tone, as he knew that those hunched over books were easily startled.

Ori sprang up, looking at him a little surprised. "Oh, hello, Bilbo," he said, smiling eventually.

"I hear you enjoyed the party last night," said Bilbo, walking up to him.

"Yes, yes, I did. It was quite a feast."

"I imagine you had them in the Blue Mountains as well."

"Oh, certainly, but we haven't had them in Erebor before. At least I haven't," said Ori. His shoulders descended a little as he relaxed from his initial surprise.

"Right." A moment of silence passed between them, not awkward, but rather a moment that lent itself to contemplation rather than to outspoken expression of their thoughts. It did not have to be said that it would take everyone time to adjust to the idea that they had a home in Erebor again, those who had been born there and those for whom it had only been a legend thus far alike. "Are you in charge of restoring the library then?" asked Bilbo, returning to the practical side of things.

"I suppose you could say that," said Ori, closing the book he had been browsing and standing up. "I like books."

Bilbo smiled back to him. "Yes, so do I."

"Yes, I noticed you had a nice collection in your home."

"Oh, well, it's not much, just a few books that I enjoy. It's certainly nothing like this," he said, looking up and all around him at the tall stone shelves filled with scrolls, stacks of papers, and not a small amount of books. It was the first time that he was actually looking at the room itself, and thinking about what it contained. He could imagine spending days in there without wanting to come out even if he couldn't understand the language that all those pages were written in. Just the thought of being surrounded by so much history and knowledge that he was unfamiliar with was enough.

"No, only the Chamber of Mazarbul is said to be a match for this, but not entirely," said Ori.

Bilbo looked at him bearing a question in his eyes.

"The chamber of records in Moria, our first home," explained Ori. "This contains far more than records. Our best literature is here, our poetry, our songs."

"Did you not have songs when your people lived in Moria?"

"We did, of course, but most of them were never recorded in writing at the time. It was in Erebor that we started concerning ourselves with art, and giving time to writing down our stories."

"I see," said Bilbo. "So it was not just about mining gold and acquiring wealth."

"No, certainly not."

"Well, would you like any help? Thorin said that we could do this together."

"Of course, I would very much welcome that!"

"Right then," said Bilbo, setting his hands on his hips, and forgetting all about his plans for a walk out in the sun.

By the time they decided to stop for the day, the sun was long gone, retreating powerless before the long darkness that reigned over winter. Bilbo had noticed the slow fading of the waves of natural light that came into the library, but had only paid marginal attention to it. There was enough firelight to make up for the sleeping sun, and enough interesting things to do. Ori had managed to clear the great room of dust, but there was still some initial sorting to be done between books, administrative records, and historical documents. Even if Bilbo didn't understand the Dwarvish language, he still found everything fascinating – the deep, faded yellow of the old paper, the intricacies of the wooden rollers that held together the scrolls, the various seals that appeared here and there, and not in the least the surprising artistry of the script. These were not texts that had been jotted down in a hurry by an unskilled hand. There was an obvious attention to detail and beauty, not the swirling, fairy beauty of Elvish script, but a more robust, austere style, yet not without its own appeal. It occurred to him that it was the kind of writing that could be adequately set in stone as well as on paper, and Dwarves certainly loved writing in stone.

Ori read to Bilbo the titles of the documents that they were sorting, and so he had further reason to be fascinated. At the same time, it left no room for silence of any kind, making their time together into an adventure of its own kind, slowly unravelling the past of the kingdom.

They only thought to leave the rest of it for another day when they remembered that they loved eating as much as they loved books. Ori extinguished some of the larger candles in the room, leaving only a lantern hanging from the ceiling, and then they set out to find what plans were being made for dinner.

Bilbo went on to see Thorin first. He was alone and looked so exhausted that every thought of asking him if he wanted to have dinner with the others perished from Bilbo's mind. He had a stack of papers in his lap and he was studying one of them when Bilbo walked into his room. He looked up from it, his expression visibly brightened by the sight of the hobbit.

Bilbo smiled to him. "You've been looking at papers all day, too, I see," he said.

Thorin raised his eyebrows, questioning Bilbo's remark.

"I've been in the library with Ori," he explained, "but I think we had a better time than you did."

Thorin flashed a faint smirk. "It is usually a better time to look at papers from the past." He put the page that he was studying back with the others, then laid the entire stack on the table next to him.

Bilbo took this as a sign that he was done with papers for that day, and went to sit by his side. "So how did it go?"

Thorin sighed and settled more comfortably into his armchair. "Well enough, but the sooner I get out of here, the better."

"Of course, but I don't think it's a good idea to push yourself."

Thorin eyed him. "No one does."

"A few more weeks is not that bad, is it?"

"I suppose not."

Thorin said these words out loud, but it was not what he was thinking. It was easy for Bilbo to read his true feelings, and he couldn't blame him for them. No one could be blamed for wanting to go back to a life that waited with so many new challenges. Sometimes, there was not much to be done, however, other than being patient. Not that patience was one of Thorin's strengths.

Bilbo laid his hand over Thorin's. "Really, Thorin, it won't be that long now. You're alive. That's what matters most to everyone. I think that's mostly what we celebrated last night."

Thorin looked at him, his beautiful eyes wide open.

"You have all the time in the world now, to rebuild your kingdom. I know, it's going to be a lot of work, but you don't have to do it all tomorrow, and you certainly don't have to do it alone."

Thorin accepted Bilbo's hand into his own, and with it his wisdom.

"We're probably going to have this conversation a lot in the next few weeks, aren't we?" asked Bilbo.

Thorin laughed, unable to deny that he would revert to his impatience soon enough.

"You were right," said Bilbo, "we will not have to look too far for things to do with our time."

"No, I think not."

"Perhaps it's better that way."

"Perhaps."

If the day that had just past almost without his even noticing was any indication of what the time to come would be like for him in Erebor, Bilbo could rest assured that there would not be much to worry about in terms of filling time. Winters in the Shire could be a little like that, but he always used the opportunity to live mostly in his books. This year, he could have easily used the dark season to write his own book about his adventure with the Dwarves, but his fiftyfirst winter had other things in store for him, it seemed. He was quite sure that he might make a second book out of it.