"Farewell, Master Burglar. Go back to your books, and your armchair. Plant your tree, and watch it grow. If more people valued home above gold, this world would be a merrier place."

And with that, Thorin stopped fighting the blackness filling his vision. The roaring in his ears overtaking his hobbit's sobs and cries. His heart ached at the thought he was leaving behind his hobbit, but it was no use. Not that he had ever told the Hobbit how he truly felt about him.

His sister-sons had died defending that rotten pile of gold. They had died because of his greed.

His company fought for their lives even now on a battlefield he had helped create.

He had hung Bilbo over the side of his wall, hung him by the neck, for being the only person who had tried to save him from himself. He didn't deserve Mahal's Halls, he deserved eternal punishment.

He could list out his every grievances, felt that he should claim every one. But, he feared he hadn't the time to list them out in their great number, as the black surrounding his vision increased.

And so, as Thorin son of Thráin II, grandson of Thrór slipped into death's dark and final hold, he cried out. The words he spoke echoing in his mind with a strength he was quickly losing. If only he could do it all again.


Bilbo felt the rocking of the boat soothing his aches and pains away. Here, as they sailed for the Undying Lands, he found himself thinking back to that quest so long ago.

He thought of his Thorin, and that battle on Ravenhill.

He thought of holding Thorin long after he grew cold and stiff, whispering to the cold body just how much he had meant to Bilbo.

He thought of everything else that had gone wrong because of him.

As his old, weakened heart slowed and his laboured breathing quieted, Bilbo Baggin's last thought unknowingly mimicked Thorin's own. If only he could do it all again.


Thorin gasped, flying up with an ease he knew he should not have. He patted himself down, looking around wildly for ravenhill and the wounds he knew he should possess. Swinging around, he uneasily recognized his location. It was his camping spot, the calm and peaceful clearing he had set up almost a year agothe morning before he had arrived at Bilbo's house.

Was he going mad?

Thorin froze stock still, and had anybody been there, they would have assumed he was carved from stone. How did he know he wasn't going insane? Again, his mind whispered vindictively and his eyes closed as if to block out the onslaught of memories.

He raised his hand once more to his chest to ease the ache that had appeared there and this time, he felt the cool metal of a chain necklace. His brows furrowed and he allowed his eyes to open once more.

There, on a chain, was the little acorn Bilbo had carried with him as he left the shire, all the way to Ravenhill. But unlike the acorn Bilbo had, this acorn had an inscription on the side. Carved into the side of the hard-wax coated seed (and he was sure it hadn't been like that before), was two names and a date. Bilbo Baggins and Thorin Oakenshield and the year listed below it was 2941. The year of the battle, this year.

It was real. He was really here. Somehow, his dying wish had been made true. He could do it all again.

The inscription bothered him though, why Bilbo's name too? Did that mean that Bilbo was here? His Bilbo? Thorin shook his head. No, it couldn't be….

Could it? Was his bunnel really here too? Had he been offered this boon by the maker?

With those thoughts running through his head, he began to pack up his small camp. He had a Hobbit to find.

Thorin knew that even if his Bilbo was here, he would have to tell him exactly what he was to Thorin and face the rejection of his one. He knew there was no way his Bilbo could forgive him after all that he had done. But he still had to try.


Bilbo woke slowly, expecting to feel the soothing rocking of the waves, even if he could no longer hear those waves crashing against the boat. But it was still, and it was silent.

Bilbo frowned and sat up, looking around, only to stop in shock at his ease of motion. He had NOT been able to do that when he fell asleep. He was, had been, unable to sit up by himself, deaf and half blind as he was.

It was then that Bilbo noticed the familiar blankets and bed, the familiar wooden floors and beams, the mirror and wardrobe that belonged to his mother. This was Bag End.

Bilbo looked down at his hands, and despite the clamminess he could feel and the shaking he couldn't stop, he saw them free of any signs of age. Smooth, clear, and strong in a way they hadn't been for at least thirty years.

He threw himself out of the bed, clambering towards the door, but was stopped by a flash of metal around his neck.

Sitting around his neck was an acorn he remembered well. It was the acorn he had taken all the way to Ravenhill and all the way back, before planting it at Bag End. And on the side, was an inscription: Thorin Oakensheild, Bilbo Baggins, and a year, 2941. The year he lost his dwarf so long ago, the day he lost his amante.

He all but ran to the door, peeling out of his room and into the study. He tore through his desk, pulling out the dayplanner he knew it contained. And there, with the previous day crossed off, was the current date. April 29, 2941.

His dying wish had come true.

With that thought, he steeled himself. As the sun slowly rose through the window, Bilbo fluttered around his kitchen. He had a dinner to prepare.


Thorin walked uneasily up to the large round door he could never forget, hearing his company shouting, laughing, and jeering at each other even through the thick door. The small acorn resting with a soothing weight around his neck, coming down to rest on top of his coat.

He knocked, the knock coming out hard and pounding due to his nerves. Instantly, the sounds coming from the house quieted. Was he really that intimidating?

Slowly, so slowly, the door opened to reveal his 'ibin abnâmul, just as Thorin remembered him.

His curly hair the color of gold and his eyes, so green they could be living emeralds. He felt the smile bloom on his face, not even registering the gasps coming from behind Bilbo, where the company watched eagerly.

Bilbo's eyes, however, had found the acorn sitting on Thorin's chest and saw the edge of an inscription he knew what would read.

He wasn't alone. The thought was a joyous one.

Thorin stepped towards Bilbo slightly, breaking his transfixed gaze. He looked up, to see Thorin's smiling face and the blue eyes of his dwarf.

Suddenly anger filled him, How dare he! How dare he stand there and smile as if he didn't leave me to live my life alone. As if he hadn't left me.

It happened before Bilbo could process what he had done. He raised his hand, and with all his might he threw his hand towards Thorin's face.

Thwack, the sound of palm hitting face rang through the air, as the company stood behind Bilbo with slacked jaws and wide eyes.

Thorin's head whipped to the side with the force of the blow as he stood there in shock. And as soon as Bilbo retracted his hand, he slammed the door in Thorin's face.


Thorin stood in shock, holding his cheek. Disappointment filling him as the ache bloomed in his chest, almost crippling. His One didn't want anything to do with him.

"I deserved that." He called through the door, trying to keep the company (read, Dwalin) from defending him against the hobbit. Unable to allow any harm to come to his Hobbit, despite the rejection.

Thorin's head fell against the door with a thunk, as he closed his eyes. His hobbit was right there and he didn't want him. For the first time in a very long time, Thorin felt like crying.

Bilbo stood stock still behind the door, even as Thorin called out something he couldn't properly make out through the ringing in his ears.

It was only a thunk against his front door that pulled him from his reverie. He opened the door again to see Thorin, standing with his eyes closed. He was in pain, that was his pain face. He only made that face when he was hurt.

Bilbo paused as Thorin opened his eyes, the never-ending blue filled with a pain that matched his face.

Once again, unable to help himself, Bilbo threw himself toward Thorin. This time, he moved until their bodies were flush, and he kissed Thorin Oakensheild for all that he was worth.


Thorin's eyes opened when he felt more than heard the door open, the pain in his chest rivaling the wound that had killed him. He watched as Bilbo took in his face once more and watched as he moved forward, expecting another blow to fall upon his body.

He was shocked, when instead of a blow, Bilbo all but threw himself toward Thorin and pulled him down. Bilbo's lips seeking out Thorin's own.

Thorin froze, He hadn't rejected him? The pain of the rejection, the ripping of his heart, faded away. Instead his heart all but sung with joy. His one, his bunnel, his 'ibin abnâmul still wanted him.

It was because of this feeling and the revelation that came with it that Thorin didn't kiss Bilbo back at first. He didn't register anything at all until Bilbo was moving away from him.

Panic filled his chest as Bilbo pulled away, a primal feeling of possession that no dwarf felt until the bond with their one was accepted.

Thorin, with a grace that spoke of thousands of battles fought and won, lunged forward. With a growl he pulled Bilbo by the waist towards his body, until they were flush together. He kissed Bilbo with all the passion he had in him, a kiss that spoke of hundred of longing nights and wishing.

Bilbo returned the kiss with the same ferocity, kissing Thorin as he had wanted to for the last 60 years, holding Thorin's neck as if he would try to leave again.

And, as the leader of the company and the hobbit kissed, the entirety of the company stared, slackjawed. What in Mahal was going on?!


Translation:

Bunnel- Ereborian variant of Ghivashel, meaning treasure of all treasures.

Amante- Lover in Italian. I'm using italian as a substitute for Hobbitish.

'ibin abnâmul- Beautiful Gem in Neo-Khuzdul