A Thorin Interlude

Thorin stares into the flames of the hearth, watching as it crackles softly in the silence of Bag End.

He's worried.

Not that he would ever admit to anyone, not even Billa. Billa, who spent hours sitting in her lounge helping him decipher maps, plot travel routes, advised on the best places to stop based on her own recent travels. Billa, who stared at him with eyes so full of confidence, it warmed his chest.

He turns, glances at her closed door. If he is being honest with himself, he almost agreed to take her with him. His resolve almost wavered when she looked up at him with those amber eyes, distraught. But that look knocked loose the memory of those same eyes pleading with him as he dangled her tiny body over the ramparts and his stomach rebelled and his will grew ironclad.

This Billa would not be subjected to the dangers of the wilderness. Even the barest thought of what she went through in that other life is enough to rouse the self-hatred, the fury at his own once careless actions.

As he grows closer, he realises the Hobbit is quite a sight. He is wain and thin as a rake, the smallest Thorin recalls ever seeing him; bags leave dark bruises under his eyes and his hair is matted with grime.

No. He would not allow it. Billa, his One, would remain here, safe and soft and whole and far, far away from the dangers this quest would pose.

Still, even though she agreed to stay put, she refused to be left out of the scheming. He shouldn't have been so surprised, his Billa has always had a quick and eager mind - and a surprising ability to gather friends in the strangest of places.

"You should stop in Rivendell," she said, one afternoon as they sat tangled up in each other on her lumpiest couch. The warm streaks of midday sunshine had shone brightly through the window, catching the golden light of her hair in a million different autumnal shades. Thorin glances down at the wild curls under his chin, raising an imperious eyebrow at her suggestion.

She glowered at him, crossing her arms - and Thorin remembers thinking the action was so delightfully cute, "I know what you're going to say, but Lord Elrond really is…"

"I have no issues with the elves of Rivendell," Thorin said. "That does not mean they will not have issues with us."

"Tell them I sent you."

He felt his eyebrows rise dangerously close to his hairline, "Do you think that would work?"

She smirked, raising her gaze to his. Her eyes danced with mirth, a constantly shifting golden light, "Lord Elrond owes me."

That was all she would say on the matter. But Thorin has long since stopped being shocked by his little Hobbit.

He sighs and cards a hand through his frazzled locks. His tired body yearns for sleep, for the last few precious nights of a soft bed, but he cannot seem to find rest. An unsettled current runs through him, the weight of the key and the map heavy in his pocket.

He has not yet told anyone of their existence, although he thinks Billa may suspect it. He had been unsure what to do with it, when the dreams that had plagued him for so many years inevitably pointed him towards their existence. The wizard handed them over without complaint, although he had a knowing look in his eyes, a look that shook Thorin to his very core.

While one part of him battled with what the existence of the map and key meant, the possible reality of his dreams, the other part took the map to be translated, to confirm what that other Thorin had witnessed under that midsummer moon.

He has everything he needs to undergo this quest - albeit with less support than he had previously. His company numbers just four, instead of the thirteen it did in that previous life. He wondered briefly if he was making a mistake, moving in such smaller numbers, but Billa pointed out a small group would find it easier to sneak past the White Orc and would move much more quickly than a larger group would.

She was right, of course. Even with the obstacles he knows to avoid thanks to his dreams, they would move much faster with only four.

He just hopes he lives long enough not to regret that decision.

"Thorin?" A thick voice asks from behind him. Billa stands behind him, bleary eyed and adorably sleep-mussed, her curls standings at odd ends around her head. A soft smile crosses his face at the sudden sight of her. She shuffles towards him on near silent feet, "What are you still doing awake?"

"I could not sleep," he whispers.

"Hm," she grunts, slipping up under his arm and right up into his lap. Her legs curl around his, and she tucks her head into the crook of his neck, a soft warmth against the thin material of his tunic. A few of her curls brush against his face softly. He tugs her closer, inhaling her sweet scent into her lungs with every slow breath.

"You always pick this chair."

Thorin blinks down at the sleepy Hobbit in his arms; her hands are tangled in his tunic, her body pressed as tightly to his as it can manage, "What?"

"You picked this chair last time too," she says with a large yawn. "When you sang the song. It made me sad."

Thorin stills, "The song?"

"Hm," she nods, "I was scared and then you sang. I realised you were scared too…"

Her breathing slows against his neck, her body softening as it slackened in sleep. By contrast, Thorin was stiff. Could it…could she…?

A soft noise catches his ear, quiet at first and then growing with gradual volume. It is Billa, humming in her sleep. It takes him a few moments to recognise what she is attempting to reproduce, but then he catches a few strong clear notes and he is suddenly back in that previous life sitting in this same chair, surrounded by his brethren as they sang of Erebor and the quest that awaited them. How that Thorin had caught sight of Bilbo lingering outside the door, peering at their tiny group as they sang their lament, even then unable to keep his eyes off the Hobbit.

Thorin has not sung that song since, not even in this life. He stares down at the sleeping Hobbit in his arms, joining her mid-note to softly hum along with her, pulling her even more tightly into his arms. Could it be that she also remembered that life?

Surely not. She would have surely said something, had she…

"Oh, and these bramble tarts! Billa's been baking 'em non-stop the last few days, ye see-"

"I have not!" She exclaims, scowling at the dwarf over her shoulder. Noid gives her a blank look before pointing at the piles upon piles of tarts around the kitchen.

Hm. Perhaps, he thinks placing his chin gently on top of Billa's head, perhaps he is not the only one living another life.