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Chapter Text

“...and when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of himself, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy and one will not be out of the other's sight, as I may say, even for a moment...” – Plato, The Symposium

High on the battlements above the main gate of the Lonely Mountain, between the gargantuan stone likenesses of dwarven ancestors, there sat a hobbit.

Book in hand, Bilbo Baggins sighed contentedly as the early spring sun chased the chill of the dark, cold mountain from his bones. Hobbits simply weren’t made for prolonged time underground; their hobbit holes far too bright and airy in comparison to the dwarf’s great kingdom.

But he did, however, quite enjoy the grand library, one of the few places untouched by the dragon’s wrath. The plethora of books found inside was enough to lighten Bilbo’s sinking mood.  Even if the book he now held was a rather melancholy tome of love stories, the descriptions rather cut-and-dry, he could read between the lines of the bone-deep longing of star-crossed lovers who outlasted all odds, although their endings weren’t happy ones.

Bilbo never really thought of himself as a romantic, even though he was prone to dashing off on adventures of all things, but he was pleasantly surprised by the amount of stories, ballads and poems in the great library of the dwarves. Who would have thought these stout hearted, rough-hewn peoples would talk of such things as lovesickness and soul mates with such heartbreaking beauty?

Hobbits, in general, told no such stories of bitter longing for the soul of another. Their stories were full of lighthearted fancy; usually love’s sweet dance or chase of youth that blossomed into the enduring faith between two hearts, as he’d seen with his beloved parents. They were happy endings, as far as Bilbo could remember.

Bilbo finished skimming a legend penned by some obscure member of the line of Durin when a cool spring breeze tempted his attention from the dusty pages.

It was coming on two years since the ground had run red with blood and in truth, the rolling hills before Erebor were not completely healed. Dale was little more than a tent city, refugees from Esgaroth crowding into the ruined settlement, skeletons of buildings being erected and thatched houses popping out on the outskirts.  The ground was still dull, the barest sprigs of spring green struggling to break the desolation the dragon had wrought, but like the dwarven people it seemed the very earth was determined to never give up.

Bilbo’s perch was the wide and thick walls of the battlements, close to where the hewn rock melted into the natural landscape of the mountain side and the hobbit made a point of coming here quite often. In the halls deep within the mountain the clangs of the smithies, bellows of orders being shouted and dull roar of reconstruction never ceased. The dwarves scurried to and fro like ants, as many more streamed in every day from the Iron Hills and the Blue Mountains.

Bilbo made himself useful where he could, usually in the healer tents or in the kitchens with Bombur, but truthfully, as time wore on, he was starting to feel out of place.

The mountain, once cleaned of the refuse of the dragon’s time, was as beautiful as his companions had attempted to describe, though some of their images fell woefully short. And the awe Bilbo felt upon seeing the throne room for the first time – it’s ceiling so high it disappeared into an abyss and the twinkle of crystals and gems like stars in the sky; the way the mighty crag wove down from that ceiling to create the throne dais as if the mountain herself were pointing to the rightful king – would not soon leave his heart.

But Bilbo was a creature of nature and sunlight and the deep dark of Erebor unnerved him. So he’d set about trying to find a vantage point, out of the way of the dwarves, where he could have a moment to think.

His thoughts often turned westward; to far off green hills and tall oaks of woods. To places beyond the Misty Mountains with little streams that giggled and tripped over smooth stones, where one could find a cool shady spot with a fishing pole and a good pipeweed.

Bilbo closed his book and leaned against the wall, cursing himself for forgetting the pipe Bofur had carved him not long after the war. He watched the wagons and the ponies entering and leaving the gates of Erebor in a never ending stream, and sighed.

This place was far too much. Too large, too loud, too dangerous and he was just too small for it all. Bilbo turned his head toward the west, where the sun was making a mad dash for the horizon.

He missed the Shire.

His heart was still being pulled toward home and he wondered how his family and friends were fairing. And yet, something behind his breast bone tugged when he thought of leaving.

“There you are, laddie!”

Bilbo jolted so hard he was in real danger of toppling over the side of the wall. He’d been dangled off these battlements once and once was plenty, thank you very much.

He’d just managed to right himself and save his book, when Balin’s hand reached out to steady him.

“Sorry,” Bilbo huffed, swinging his furred feet over the wall’s edge and sliding back to the safety of the floor.

Balin gave him a worried look. “Not exactly the safest place for reading, Master Hobbit. One good gust of wind and over you’d go.”

“I was just enjoying the view and a bit of peace,” Bilbo said, hoping it didn’t sound too curt. He never seemed to be able to linger alone for long before one dwarf or another sought him out. Usually to bring him to the king. Unconsciously, Bilbo’s hand moved over the solid weight in his waistcoat pocket, rubbing it softly.

Bilbo suspected this was Balin’s purpose as well. As the king’s advisor, he rarely saw the old dwarf unless it was some royal business.

But Balin didn’t seem to see anything wrong in Bilbo’s quest for solitude. “Aye, the mountain has come back to life, hasn’t it?” He gave Bilbo a wink and patted his shoulder. “Didn’t expect to be surrounded by this many dwarves, eh lad?”

“No,” Bilbo agreed. “Twelve of them crammed into my hobbit hole were plenty, thank you. I just needed to get a little air. We hobbits are not used to prolonged stays in the dark.”

Balin hummed in agreement as he took out his pipe and lit it. Bilbo eyed the gentle smoke curling from Balin’s lips with envy, wishing for his own pipe. He really needed to start thinking ahead when he dashed from his rooms to escape the gloom.

“I told him that’s why his hobbit tended to go missing from time to time,” Balin said cryptically. “Not used to this, is all.”

He eyed Bilbo and despite the ponderous amount of white hair and beard, the hobbit could detect a mischievous smirk on the dwarf’s lips.

Bilbo frowned. His hobbit? A blush crept up his neck and Bilbo tugged at his cravat subtly. While Balin enjoyed his pipe, Bilbo eyed the battlements for a moment, remembering the darkest day his heart would never forget. Feet scrabbling and kicking for purchase where there was none, a meaty, powerful hand wrapped around his throat and eyes like blue flint, hard and piercing with rage and betrayal.

The rift between he and Thorin was not an easy thing to bridge, especially with the King so injured after the battle. Bilbo himself had not escaped unscathed and between the two of them fighting fevers and meddling dwarf princes, it took a while before either were well enough to visit the other’s tent. 

In the end, it had been Thorin who sought out the halfling, leaning heavily on a crutch and his middle swathed in bandages. Bilbo’s head was nearly cocooned in wrappings but he was stable enough to sit up in fright when the dwarf king appeared at his tent flap. The whole thing had been most awkward and a few times, Bilbo wanted nothing more than to slip on his ring and disappear. But something in Thorin’s eyes stayed him. It was a longing thick with grief and remorse in those blue depths and nothing could have prepared Bilbo for the sight of such a powerful and majestic creature kneeling at his bedside.

Thorin did not beg, but the plea in his voice and the wretched look on his face was clear when he said he hoped the hobbit would consider forgiveness.  

Bilbo had wept openly then, his forehead pressed to the king’s and if there were a few tears streaking the bruised and dirtied face of Thorin, son of Thrain, then Bilbo would not mention it.

After that, well, the awkwardness had returned. Bilbo had stayed at Thorin’s behest to see Erebor rebuilt. But there had never been any formal talks of making it permanent and that Bilbo was to never return to the Shire. Bilbo had tried to bring it up a time or two, only for Thorin to deftly and sometimes forcefully change the subject.

Bilbo was caught in a fierce current of emotions, pulling him this way and that. He cared deeply for Thorin, more than he could probably express in coherent words and he knew the King cared very much for him.

But were they courting? Bilbo half suspected they were, given all the gifts of furs, clothing and finely-wrought jewelry he found waiting for him in his rooms every evening. But Thorin had made no formal declaration. Their touches were chaste and fleeting, though the king seemed to forcefully reign himself back every time Bilbo thought he was about to be kissed. Of course, that could just be Bilbo’s overactive imagination.

The poor hobbit didn’t know if this was just the hospitality a King bestowed on cherished friend who’d helped save his kingdom, or… something deeper.

And then there was the way Thorin looked at him at times. Like he wanted to burn into Bilbo’s very soul and claim every inch of it, and oh how it made the hobbit’s chest seize up and his breathing hitch.

Balin was looking at him strangely.

“I’m sorry, you were saying?” Bilbo fumbled with his book and took a steadying breath to banish the distracting thoughts from his head.

Balin smiled again with an infuriatingly knowing look that reminded the hobbit a bit too much of a certain wizard.

“I was saying that Thorin’s meetings with Dain should be finished within the hour. He’ll be lookin’ to dine with ya this evening if you’re amenable to it.”

“Oh,” Something like excitement settled in the hobbit’s stomach despite his muddled thoughts. It would be good to see Thorin.

Bilbo looked up at the sun again and realized it was nearly tea time. “Yes, yes. That’s fine. I should probably see to tea, if Bombur is of a mind to let me have a little space in the kitchen.”

Dwarves, by nature, didn’t keep to tea time and though his company certainly knew of Bilbo’s wont for keeping to his seven meals a day, with Erebor in such disarray, the hobbit was willing to be lenient. But he wasn’t about to give up tea. Bombur oversaw the royal kitchens and with so many mouths to feed, the place was little more than organized chaos and the oversized dwarf could be a bit territorial.

But Bilbo thought he could finagle little counter space and a kettle to boil.