There are many things Thorin Oakenshield has learned to value in his years of exile. Likewise, there are many things he's learned to scorn. Fickle things like comfort, beauty, finesse. Inessential, useless distractions that hide the truth of the world. A pretty face can mask the ugliest soul, and a soft bed has often meant a dagger in the night. He's grown harder in their absence. Stronger.
Gazing up at the White Orc, his body nothing more than a distant ache, Thorin knows two things: he's failed and he is going to die. The latter is only an after thought, a foregone conclusion. If he's failed he is as good as dead anyway and no mistake. It's only fitting that it be at the hands of the beast that killed his father. A kind of closure. It has the ring of fate.
And then there is Bilbo. Small, sweet-natured Bilbo with his too-large feet and his too-big heart throwing himself bodily between Thorin and his executioner. Standing sword in hand against a foe he cannot possibly hope to beat but from whom he will not run and Thorin is struck to his bones with the knowledge that Bilbo is ready to fight for him, kill for him. Bilbo is ready to die for him and now Bilbo will never go home, either.
Thorin's fault, because he was cruel. Because he can't leave well enough alone. There's a hole in his heart ever since he lost his home and it eats at him, claws at him. Leaves him weak. Thorin is riddled with impurities and he isn't sure even the finest smith could make use of him.
In his ears comes the rush of wind over the screaming and the rasp of feathers. It reminds him of skin sliding across paper. Across velvet. Across dry leather and brass fastenings. Not the worst sound to follow him into the afterlife, he reasons.
He is born up, away, heavenward but as the wind chills his bones, Thorin realizes he's not been released. His days are not yet ended. It's not his time to rest. A minute or an hour later, sun-warmed stone against his back and the sound of feathers rushing away, he finds it somewhere in himself to stand. Where, he cannot say, because he has never felt more humble. Not when he first beheld the Arkenstone, nor when he first met the Gray Wizard, nor even the day he watched his kingdom brought low.
Thorin Oakenshield has learned the value of things in his exile. He's tempered himself with time and hate. But it's not until he's saved by someone soft, someone surrounded by fickle things, that he realizes he hasn't only grown hard and strong. He's grown brittle and rigid and cold.
One Who Could Be Called King, indeed. One who despite the lessons of time and distance has become just as foolish as his father. He should have met his fate in that burning forest. His head should be on a spike at Azog's side, and yet, here he stands. Alive, unspoiled, thanks to one he'd derided and mocked. Thanks to one with a purer heart than his.
And perhaps that is why it's not his place to rest. He knows his debts are high, because when Thorin's fate came for him, Bilbo Baggins chose to stand. It seems the least Thorin can do is stand by his side.
It is not in himself he finds the strength to do it.
In his chest there is a warm, fluttering heat that makes his heart stutter. A feeling he thought could only come from one place, and Thorin fears he may be right. It's one he remembers from nights by hearth fires and his mother's hands carding through his hair. Like his father's eyes before all they sought was glitter. A feeling like safe.
A feeling like home.
It doesn't help that Bilbo smiles like it's a gift instead of a burden or that his breath comes quick when Thorin stands near. It does nothing to slake the hunger in his heart when Bilbo looks at him like there is an echo of it in his as well.
He has grown brittle and cannot help but wonder, with fear and hope in equal measure, if it will be Bilbo who shatters him.