Chapter Text
Thorin glowered darkly at the elf seated across from him. Thranduil, of course, glared right back, even as Bard of Lake-town continued to talk as though he couldn’t see them. At Thorin’s side, Bilbo said primly in his chair, only barely able to see over the table. He looked entirely at ease, though his tail gave him away with its anxious flicking.
At Thorin’s other side, Fíli took the whole thing quite seriously, focused entirely on Bard as he had been taught to while they were living in Ered Luin and Dís was training him to be Thorin’s heir. If Thorin had been paying much attention at all to the proceedings, he might have been proud of his nephew. For someone so young to be able to step into such a weighty role, Thorin knew intimately the toll it could take.
However, he was entirely distracted by the warmth of Bilbo’s smaller body beside him and the Elvenking’s heated stare. They had argued over the Gems of Lasgalen at the beginning of every meeting and Thranduil would refuse to make any deals until the Gems were given to him. Thorin, quite reasonably, pointed out that finding the gems would take time and he had to prioritize the survival of his people during the coming winter.
They sat around a table in one of the tents belonging to the men. It was, of course, man-sized. Thorin, Bilbo, Fíli, and Balin looked quite non-threatening seated at a table that came to their chests – or higher, in Bilbo’s case. Thranduil had no advisors or allies at the table with him. His son had left to live with the Dúnedain Rangers of the North for a time, according to an elf-woman Kíli had become fond of, to Thorin’s chagrin. Bard kept council with Tharkûn, but the wizard mostly observed with the same interest he had for most things, almost none.
Originally, Thorin had attended the meetings with only Balin, Fíli, and Dáin. Then, Bilbo had poked his head into the tent one morning before they began and asked if he might be allowed to sit in. Thorin could refuse him nothing, of course, and put him to his left. Bilbo had promptly gotten in one of the politest arguments Thorin had ever witnessed with the Elvenking after Thranduil had mentioned their escape from his dungeons, then Bilbo had easily negotiated a cutting of Erebor’s gold to be put toward the rebuilding of Dale and Lake-town, and Thorin could only watch with awe as Bilbo sat entirely unphased when Thranduil shouted about his desired Gems.
At the end of that meeting, Dáin had declared that his presence was no longer necessary if Thorin planned to keep the hobbit around and left with a knowing grin that Thorin didn’t like. Bilbo couldn’t know that his behavior was akin to that of a consort. Hobbits had no royalty, so he would only be acting in a manner he believed befitting a close friend.
“... I, of course, couldn’t speak for the king on the matter.” Bilbo was saying to Bard. They both looked at him and he realized that he was supposed to reply.
“Whatever you think is best, Master Baggins,” Thorin said. Bilbo raised his eyebrows, but accepted the answer.
“That’s settled, then. I’m sure we can have some kind of contract drawn up, if you like.”
“There’s no need,” Bard said. “Your word is more than trustworthy, Master Hobbit.” A bit of pink rose on Bilbo’s cheeks and Thorin stared.
When they were released from their meeting, the dwarves made their way back to the mountain. With a teasing grin, Fíli praised Bilbo’s diplomacy skills, which Bilbo humbly deflected even as Thorin glared daggers at his nephew. As they approached the gates of the mountain, Thorin pulled Bilbo aside.
“What deal did you make with the Bowman?” He asked. Bilbo frowned at him.
“You weren’t listening?” He asked, exasperated. “Why would you agree to something when you hadn’t heard what you were agreeing to?”
“You clearly believed it was a fair trade,” Thorin said.
“That’s enough for you?” Bilbo asked.
“Of course.”
They were quiet for a moment while Bilbo stared at him like Thorin was a puzzle he was trying to solve.
“I allowed them use of Erebor’s resources until they have completed the construction of Dale,” Bilbo said quietly. “I figured you would say if you disagreed on the matter.”
“It matters not to me,” Thorin said. “I trust your judgement.”
Bilbo went pink again, and this time Thorin’s heart sang. Ibinê, it cried. Amrâlimê. Khîê.
He would have Bilbo dripping in the jewels of his people. He would forge a ring for his finger unlike any Middle-earth had ever seen. He would teach Bilbo the language of his ancestors so that when the words spilled from his lips in affection, Bilbo would know just how dearly he was treasured.
Instead he said nothing. They parted when they entered the mountain, each attending to separate duties.
“Do you remember giving him a shirt of sanzigil, Irak’adad?” Fíli asked, appearing from the shadows with his brother at his side.
“Of course I remember,” Thorin replied.
“Does he know that you’re courting, then?” Kíli asked. Something in Thorin’s gut lurched, and he thought he might be sick right there on the stone floor of his forefathers.
“We aren’t courting,” he stated. “He would have to accept a courting gift, knowing that it was such, for it to count. He doesn’t know our customs.”
“That can easily be solved,” Kíli pointed out.
“If you tell him, you will never see that khathzûna again,” Thorin told him. Kíli went red and didn’t say another word, even as Fíli fixed a look on him. Seeing them together like this, Thorin could see Frerin at his own side. With his ancestral home retaken, the grief ached more than it had in decades. How could it be that he still saw Fíli as a child, and yet he out lived Frerin’s lifetime twice over already? And yet his eyes shone with the same mischief, the same affection, that Frerin’s had right before they’d left for the battle which had ended in his death.
“Uzbad Ereboru!” A shout came down the hall and Thorin braced. A young khuzd with a thick red beard ran over from outside and panted as he approached. “There is a caravan from the Blue Mountains!”
“Already?” Thorin asked, heart leaping. Both Fíli and Kíli were already past the gate and sprinting toward camp. At once, he followed, uncaring about who saw the King Under the Mountain in such a state.
The caravan came to a stop outside the camp and his kin began to swarm toward the mountain. He saw young Gimli, Glóin’s son, no longer a child but sprinting like one. Around him, there were tears. There were shoulds of his name and praises for the “King Under the Mountain”.
Then there was Dís. Dark beard braided and swinging with beads, long hair tied up for the journey from the west. She had hardly stepped away from the caravan before her boys were in her arms, crying like babes. He approached swiftly and wrapped the three of them up, though he couldn’t quite reach all the way around the way he could when Fíli and Kíli were small.
“You kept them safe,” Dís murmured into his hair.
“I promised I would,” Thorin replied softly.
She cried again when she stepped into the mountain, having been quite young when they’d been forced to leave. Though it was odd for her to be so openly weepy, no one said a word as they walked the halls. Dís surveyed the beginnings of the reconstruction efforts and politely said nothing of the men and elves living on their doorstep.
“You must tell me of your journey,” Dís said when he had walked her through nearly everything he had begun. “You said so little in your letters. I know it was a difficult undertaking.”
“It’s difficult to talk about,” Thorin said gruffly.
“Everything is difficult for you to talk about,” Dís replied.
“I mean it is difficult in that there is so much to tell,” Thorin said.
“And that there is much you regret,” Kíli added, only laughing when Thorin scowled at him.
A squeak from down the hall caught their attention and Thorin warmed at the sight of Bilbo staring wide-eyed at them.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “I saw Glóin running this way and I wanted to see what had happened.”
“My kin have begun arriving from Ered Luin,” Thorin told him. “This is my sister, Dís, daughter of Thrain. Namad, this is Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.”
“A hobbit?” She asked, a look on her face much like the one Thorin was sure he made when he had first been presented with the idea.
“Master Baggins is very well the sole reason we all made it here alive and successfully forced the dragon out,” Thorin told her before she could say anything he’d rather she didn’t. She didn’t look convinced, but she said nothing more while the very subject stood before her.
“I wouldn’t take all the credit,” Bilbo insisted. “I only stepped in here and there.”
“You deserve every word of praise I have offered you and then some,” Thorin said firmly.
“You’re an excellent burglar!” Kíli exclaimed. “Even if all you can really burgle is- well…” He clamped his mouth shut immediately and Thorin could see the bob in Bilbo’s throat when he swallowed, Dís’ shrewd eyes fixed on him.
“I think I’ll go meet Glóin’s son,” Bilbo said. Then he was off and Dís had her stare firmly fixed on his back.
“I really think I’d like to hear your tale, nadad,” she said.