Archive of Our Own ^beta

Thorin cannot remember the last time he felt this awkward. Or so painfully aware of the sounds he is making chewing. If he focuses, he can hear Bard doing the same, of course, but somehow, it feels like Thorin is the loudest of the two of them.

Maybe he is. It half makes him want to stop eating, but then there would just be silence, or Bard chewing and then he’d probably become self-conscious about it and at least if they’re eating there’s a reason for the silence.

The other half, of course, enrages Thorin. That he’s been put in this position: having dinner with a man he barely likes. His husband.

Oh, he saw the wisdom in the match. Winter was coming and the people of Laketown had decided to rebuild Dale, but it would be slow going; if not for the help of dwarves and elves, they wouldn’t last the season. And despite it being in ruins as it was, Thorin certainly didn’t want Dale’s friendship with Mirkwood becoming any deeper than it already was.

So, a political match. Kíli was clearly in love with the elf and while Thorin still held on hope he would regain his senses, it seemed unlikely and, despite how much Thorin hated the thought of his nephew joining with an elf… he would not force Kíli to forsake Tauriel and cause his misery.

Fíli was heir to the throne and now that they were back in Erebor, it wouldn’t be long before missives with proposals started arriving. Fíli was unattached so he, Thorin and his mother would be able to find the best suited match.

That left Thorin. A match that wouldn’t bring forth children was and wasn’t what was best for their people. Thorin had no great desire for children of his own, much less half-dwarrow, but the fact remained that he and Bard would have no actual connexion besides a contract.

Not even a friendship.

And so, this had been decided: one nightly meal a week, just the two of them, so they could get to know each other and, hopefully, a bond (of friendship, if nothing else), could grow between them.

Thorin does not remember the last time he made a friend. He’s also of the opinion true bonds are made through sharing in the difficult times, but he doesn’t think anyone would support two kings going off to hunt wargs by themselves. From the way Bard had barely looked up from his food once they’d been served, Thorin was sure he would welcome the chance anyhow.

Fifty more dinners of this. Mahal, Thorin was not looking forward to any of it.

They finish eating at around the same time, and then Bard is looking at him. Thorin tries to keep his face neutral as he looks back. He’s aware he is… quick to anger, and it is something he’s trying to get a hold on.

Thorin believes he was a good leader to his people in the Blue Mountains. But now he’s king. He must do better.

With that in mind, he asks, “how are you finding the weight of the crown?” He, at least, had always expected it. Bard clearly had not.

Bard blinks and Thorin forces himself to keep still. He does not mean it as an offense and hopes Bard doesn’t read it so. Thorin already knows there is no getting out of these dinners; he doesn’t know if a friendship can be grown through them. But at the very least… they should find some common ground.

“Heavy,” Bard finally says and Thorin nods, lets a little huff of air out. Yes, it is at that. Bard blinks, studies him for a few moments, then, haltingly, says, “you… were born for it.”

Thorin snorts, “yes, and then I was in exile. There was not much to be king of.”

“But your people… you had to have found somewhere to live after… Erebor.”

Thorin nods, “the Blue Mountains.” He pauses, Bard seemingly paying attention. He exhales, “we did not manage to retake Moria from the orcs.”

Bard nods, slowly, “where you grandfather perished.”

“Azog cut off his head,” Thorin says and doesn’t try to make his voice dispassionate. That would be an insult to Thrór’s memory.

“I’m sorry.”

Thorin almost tells him that it is where he lost his father too, that he never believed him dead, that he searched… that, finally, he knows what happened to him from Gandalf.

But they do not have intimacy. Most likely never will. This… polite conversation, must suffice.

Instead of mentioning any other family member, Thorin tells some stories of the Blue Mountains. He does not say it in so many words, how he felt the weight of responsibility, for having to lead so many, but Thorin thinks Bard can read between the words.

Eventually, he stops. It’s gotten late; Bard’s children had not made an appearance and Thorin doesn’t know if they’re in the house or not. It’s bigger than the wooden one in Laketown and Thorin has his own quarters, though he hasn’t bothered looking inside.

And tonight will be no exception.

He makes his way outside, where his guards await so they can ride back to Erebor.

“Until next time, King Under the Mountain,” Bard says with a small bow, which Thorin returns.

“Until next week, King of Dale.”

.

Bard doesn’t know what to think of the King Under the Mountain.

Thorin certainly has the look of a king, the poise of one and, sometimes, Bard will think of him when he has to pretend to be one too. He thinks of Thranduil as well, but there is an easiness to the elf that Bard is sure he’ll never be able to copy and it will be all the worse for even attempting it in the first place.

But, in some aspects, Thorin seems as surprised by his new role as Bard. Like the fact he cannot go anywhere without guards.

Bard, once it had been decided to settle in Dale and he had – despite his protests – been made king, had thought he would see Thorin here and there for negotiations. Or, more likely, a dwarf of his choice. Bard liked Balin well enough and thought the dwarf would be fair in their dealings.

He most certainly had not been expecting a marriage and for it to come with conditions! Admittedly, one dinner a week for a whole year is a… queer and unexpected one but, perhaps, having killed a dragon, Bard should really stop expecting his life to follow in any way a “regular” path.

The last time Bard had thought of remarrying, Tilda had been a babe and he knew it was what was expected. To find his children a new mother. But the idea of replacing Kyra… it had been more than he could stomach. He’s sure he would have only made whatever woman he picked miserable, not being able to give her even half his heart.

So Bard had remained unmarried and had been perfectly content with it.

And now he has a husband. Well, if anything, Bard does not doubt Thorin is very much not going to replace Kyra.

And Bard really should stop letting his mind wander while he’s having dinner with the so-called husband. Although, it is not like Thorin has been trying to set a conversation up.

Just as last time, he is eating what was set in his plate without comment, though he’d thanked the maid that had served them. The girl had blushed and Bard wonders if it’s because there’s a king – an actual one – here or if it’s Thorin himself.

He is a handsome dwarf, Bard can see that much.

He clears his throat because that thought really has no place in his mind.

Thorin raises an eyebrow and Bard is thankful that his beard is hiding the way he’s sure his cheeks are darkening.

Bard doesn’t actually have anything to say! And then, he remembers that his children had asked about the young princes’ (older than Bard, he would bet) health.

“How fare your nephews?” Thorin blinks and Bard continues, before Thorin can decide there’s a darker purpose to his question, “my children were wondering.”

Thorin’s face does something at it that Bard can’t interpret. Not bad, but… surprised. With something else. It hits him that perhaps in some weeks Bard won’t find Thorin so hard to decipher. He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“Recovering,” a pause, “and yours?”

Bard blinks, “they’re well, thank you. Unused to…” he waves a hand. True monarchs will find their house a simple abode, he’s sure, but it is still far more than they’ve ever had, or expected to have. Bard knows there are nights the three of them still sleep in the same room, far too used to it. There are nights where he has to force himself not to go to them too.

Thorin’s lips twitch, “yes, my nephews as well.”

Bard decides this is a good a topic as any and says, “you told me you were the leader in the Blue Mountains.”

“It was different. I was not a king. I was… leading my people, yes, but through survival, not…” he doesn’t finish his sentence but Bard thinks he knows what he was trying to say.

“I tried to teach Fíli as much as I could about ruling, but a lot was… simply words.”

“It is good he has you to still teach him, then.”

Thorin raises an eyebrow slightly, “yes, I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon,” he deadpans and Bard’s eyes go a bit wide. He opens his mouth to apologize – he certainly hadn’t meant that! – but Thorin waves his hand, lips slightly twitched up. “I jest.”

Bard blinks and Thorin huffs, “yes, I am capable of that too.”

Bard snorts, “good; I’m not sure I could handle a husband without a sense of humour.”

“Oh, because you’re the picture of merriment.”

Bard points his glass of wine to Thorin. Yes, that isn’t something for which he is known for.

Thorin grows serious, “I hope that my sister-sons and your children have happier times than we did.”

Bard blinks, “it wasn’t all bad,” he forces out in a light tone.

Thorin studies him for a few seconds before nodding, “no, it was not.”

Bard gives him a small smile. Yes, he does believe he’s starting to understand Thorin better.

.

One month has gone by. Thorin has seen Bard more than once a week, but all other times were because of their kingdoms and not… the personal matter that now binds them.

The Men more than the Dwarves always study Thorin attentively, who can’t quite figure out if it’s because of the novelty – a Man marrying a Dwarf – or something else, such as looking out for Bard.

More and more Dwarves are making their way to Erebor – only a few more months before Dís leads most of their people back from the Blue Mountains –, but Thorin feels there is a bigger gap there than with Bard and his Men.

But, surely, that must be expected, when Bard lived his whole life amongst them, no better or worse.

“How is everything?” Bard asks after they’ve taken the first bites in silence, as has become costume. And, how strange, to have a “usual” when it comes to dining with a Man.

“Good, thank you. And with your people?”

Bard nods, “they fare well. Some miss the lake.”

Thorin can’t imagine what that must have been like, to have a house on top of water, which could break and drown them at any moment. Of course, he imagines there are those that fear the same of the mountains.

“Will they try to rebuild?” Thorin asks, genuinely interested, since it pertains a place not too far from his borders. But he’s also curious on what Bard will tell him about it.

Bard shrugs, not regally at all. “Nothing is decided yet,” Bard pauses, takes a small sip from the wine they’ve been served.

When he decides not to continue, Thorin prompts, “they will need gold.”

Bard blinks, frowns, “you believe they will try to get it from you?”

“No. From you.”

Bard doesn’t look that surprised. He’s not an idiot; he knows rebuilding will have costs and Thorin can’t imagine anyone in Dale has that much.

“And you wish I did not give it?” Bard asks in a decisively neutral tone. Thorin wonders for whose sake it is, if he’s trying to keep his temper in check or not anger Thorin.

Simply that already irritates him a bit, but that is flushed by shame.

Dwarves are a proud people and, despite having lost his homeland, Thorin was raised to become king and has always lived his life that way. That does not mean he doesn’t look back to some of his actions with shame. So, he will control his temper as much as he can.

“It’s your gold, you can do with it as you want. I do not see rebuilding Laketown as a bad enterprising. But certainties are needed. Would it become part of Dale? Have a different king?”

Bard sighs, “I know all that. But I truly do not believe anything will come of it soon.”

Thorin nods, accepts it. He isn’t entirely sure he agrees, but Bard doesn’t seem the type to willingly let himself walk blind. He knows his people far better than Thorin.

“Do you know why your ancestors built Laketown?” Thorin asks.

Bard raises an eyebrow, “a dragon came and destroyed their city.”

Thorin huffs, “yes, but why did they not leave?”

“And go where?”

“There are other Men settlements.”

Bard dips his chin in acquaintance. He takes a few moments before speaking, “some did leave, according to our elders. But for most… they had never gone far. They did not know what they would find.” Another pause, “did you?”

“We had kin in the Blue Mountains. But we still had to build our own settlement.”

“Did you always know you would come back?”

“No,” Thorin says and doesn’t have to think about it, “not after my grandfather was killed and my father disappeared.”

Bard’s eyes go wide and Thorin almost regrets having said it in the first place. Bard remains quiet and Thorin knows he’s giving him the room to decide whether to continue the subject or not.

“I had to lead our people in their absence,” Thorin settles on. There is a lot more to the story but he decides he does not want to go into it, not now. He almost tells Bard the plan was not to retake Erebor but to get the Arkenstone, so he could unite the Dwarven lords and only then come fight the dragon, but he decides Bard has no reason to know all that. Besides, he will probably find him gullible. Or worse: uncaring.

Thorin thinks back on the months before their quest, on meeting Gandalf. It was not by chance, he’s quite aware of it, but the way he had put his all into the idea of getting Erebor back…

Thorin wonders if, even from so far away, the Arkenstone had been playing with his mind. It has been clear for some time that it is no mere stone.

It is displayed on the throne once more, though Thorin has several times wished to throw it in the darkest pit. But it is the symbol of his rule and so, he must keep it. And Thorin has the feeling it would reappear sooner or later. Better to keep an eye where it is.

“Well, despite everything… I am glad you have come back to your home. All of you,” Bard says and Thorin dips his head in thanks. “Strange… to think you knew one of my ancestors.”

“I did not know him well,” Thorin says, sure Bard is talking about Girion, though Thorin knew his father too. “But if you have questions…”

Bard hums, “perhaps another day.” Thorin accepts it easily; to him, it must feel like ancient history.

It is only recently that Thorin has been able to let go of his anger towards Girion. Yes, he failed in killing the dragon… but Smaug wouldn’t have come if it hadn’t been for the gold in Erebor in the first place.

Perhaps some things are simply written. Thorin likes to believe he is the master of his soul but he has lived enough to know some things are inescapable. And others seem that way until they are not.

“Staying in Laketown was honourable,” Thorin says, bringing his mind back to Girion.

Bard nods, but doesn’t reply and Thorin decides it’s time he take his leave. It’s getting late and, as much as he has been enjoying the evening, he has a long day ahead of him.

Bard seems to understand that and gets up, Thorin following after him towards the door, as is costume.

“Thank you, for accepting to always dine at Dale,” Bard says before Thorin leaves.

“I understand why you want to stay close. But perhaps… one day you can all dine with me at Erebor.”

Bard gives him a small smile, “I would like that. And so would the children.”

Thorin nods; he’ll tell Balin and he’ll take care of it. Perhaps Fíli and Kíli will join them too.

“Have a safe trip,” Bard tells him as he opens the door.

“Until next week,” Thorin replies, receiving another small smile. The door closes behind him and his guards walk in front and back as they walk towards the ponies. No one asks him any questions and Thorin enjoys the night’s air.

.

Bard and his children are lucky the floors of Erebor are so clean, otherwise their noses would be meeting it soon, from the way they are looking wide-eyed around them, barely paying attention to the ground they’re stepping on.

Thorin can’t help but feel proud; it is true that their settlement in the Blue Mountains had, eventually, been nothing scoff at, but it pales in comparison to Erebor’s majesty.

After three months of “married life”, this is the first time Bard is having dinner at Erebor – and with his children accompanying him.

Thorin had invited them after Bard had asked about his nephews, mentioned how his children still talked about them and once Thorin had been sure Fíli and Kíli were free for dinner that night, he had sent off the invitation. He did not have anything against Bard’s children… but it did not mean he was very comfortable around them either.

No, Kíli’s and Fíli’s good disposition would make the dinner a far more pleasant occasion, he was sure.

“How many dwarves currently live here?” Bard asks and Thorin hums.

“Not many, a few thousand. Dís, my sister, is leading most back from the Blue Mountains. It will take them a few more months to arrive.”

“None will stay back?” Bard asks and he’s no longer looking around himself, attention on Thorin.

“Some have made their lives there and do not wish to return, if they ever knew Erebor. But for most…” Thorin doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t know how to put into words what returning means to most of Erebor’s dwarves.

Bard gives him a small smile.

“Don’t you miss the sun?” The youngest, Tilda, asks and Thorin turns to look at her. She’s the only one of Bard’s children that don’t surpass him in height. Once, that would have been a novelty, but it has been too many years of living around Men for Thorin to pay it too much attention.

“There are some places where sunlight enters Erebor. We have gardens. Crops.”

“Really?” Bard asks.

“They have died, of course, but they will hopefully bear fruit next year. We cannot rely solely on our neighbours,” Thorin hopes Bard doesn’t take his meaning to harm and he doesn’t seem to, nodding and moving along.

Finally, they reach his quarters and once they’re inside – Fíli and Kíli already waiting –, Thorin does not have to do much talking.

At first, the eldest two seem a bit shy, not speaking much but – as Thorin never doubted – Kíli and Fíli get them out of their shells.

It is an amusing dinner, reminds Thorin of travelling with the Company. Nowadays, he will either dine alone or have a formal affair. Hm, perhaps he should see about bringing the Company back together for one evening.

“And now comes the best part of dinner!” Kíli says and Tilda’s eyes are wide. “Songs!”

She blinks, “songs?”

“Of course! Do Men not sing after a meal?”

“No,” she says, frowning.

“We do not do it always either,” Thorin says before Kíli can lead her in the opposite belief. It would probably not hurt, but she is a Princess of Dale, the closest neighbour to Erebor. It’s not a good image for her to have wrong beliefs about Dwarrow culture.

“But sometimes?” she asks and Thorin nods. He hasn’t made a point of talking overly much during dinner but, out of the three, she’s the one who’s asked him the most questions.

“And you’re in luck,” Fíli starts, grin on his face, “for uncle Thorin is one of our best singers.”

Tilda blinks. Then, “really?” The way she makes one word drip with disbelief makes his sister-sons start laughing themselves silly, which makes Thorin roll his eyes. And these are the heirs of the mightiest Dwarf realm.

“Tilda!” Sigrid says, then turns to Thorin, “I’m sorry, she-”

He waves her apology away. “She’s never had occasion to hear me sing. I don’t fault her for not believing Fíli.”

“So you’re concurring with your nephew?” Bard asks and he sounds amused, but interested too.

Thorin huffs, “no. But I have been complimented on my singing before.”

“You’re the king,” Tilda says, once more making a face. “No one will insult you.”

“Tilda!” Sigrid says again but, this time, she just hides her face in her hands, though Thorin thinks she’s more hiding her amusement than shame. None of the boys are trying to hide their mirth.

Bard isn’t laughing, but he’s lounging in his chair, relaxed.

“They said it before I was king. Does that make it better?” Thorin asks once he’s sure he can be heard.

“Before you were king, you were a prince.”

“She’s got you there, uncle!” Fíli says. Kíli is laughing too hard to be able to speak properly. Probably for the best – that said, Thorin knows what story will be making the rounds next week.

“There is only way to defend your honour, King Under the Mountain,” Bard says, diverted. “You must sing for us.”

“And you shall tell me if all my kin, friends and strangers have been lying to me, Miss Tilda?”

Tilda takes a couple of seconds to nod and then, in a serious tone, says, “I promise.”

Thorin can’t help the quick smile at that. It has been a while since he spent any significant time around children, but he’s always liked their way of seeing the world. Kíli and Fíli sure brought a lightness to his world when there wasn’t much to be found.

Thorin would ask Tilda’s favourite song but chances are he does not know it. He has also always preferred the more melancholic songs but he doesn’t want to sing anything sad to change the mood of the evening. No, let it stay joyful.

Finally, Thorin settles on one about the turn of the seasons. It is simple and Thorin sang it often to Fíli and Kíli who, from their smiles, seem to remember it well.

After, Thorin raises an eyebrow to Tilda, “so, have I been lied to?”

She blinks, then shakes her head, smiling, “no! They were right.”

“You have a beautiful voice,” Sigrid says and then, as Thorin turns to her, she lowers her eyes, seems to regret speaking.

“Thank you,” Thorin replies, as softly as he can. She keeps her eyes down, but smiles.

“Uncle used to sing us asleep,” Kíli says.

“Anything to get a moment’s break from you rascals,” Thorin says and Bain leans forward while Sigrid’s eyes widen. She’s not used to him speaking this way.

“Thorin let us get away with everything. Amad tried to stop him from spoiling us rotten, but no use. He was always bringing us gifts and sweets.”

“And don’t forget the games we played!”

Kíli nods at Fíli, “yes, like pony wars.”

“Pony wars?” Tilda asks and Thorin can see all of Bard’s family – including the man – is far too interested in the answer.

He could put a stop to it but… who does it harm? Well, his reputation, but perhaps this is not the worst setting for it to happen…

“Fíli got Dwalin, I got Thorin and then we fought with wooden swords.”

“Got?” Bard asks, even though Thorin is sure he knows exactly what Kíli means.

“On their backs. Like ponies.”

The children look varying degrees of disbelieving and Bard is looking at Thorin like he doesn’t recognize him, which makes him snort, even as it feels slightly bittersweet. Of course he doesn’t appear like someone that would let his nephew ride him around like a pony just for the enjoyment of that child.

“It sounds like you had a fun childhood,” Bard says.

“Yeah,” Kíli replies and Fíli gives Thorin a smile.

It was not always easy but Thorin tried his best to provide his sister-sons with everything they could have ever desired had they not been driven away from Erebor.

Tilda asks about what other games they used to play and Kíli starts explaining a charade one – which involves doing everything with one eye covered and one foot up – and Thorin can tell he will embarrass himself at least once more tonight.

Surrounded by his sister-sons, Bard and his children… it feels like a small price to pay.

.

It is not the first time one of them has had to reschedule their weekly dinner, but it is the first that Bard thinks Thorin did it because of a sickness and not some royal affair. He also thinks perhaps they should have skipped this week altogether, because Thorin doesn’t look like he should be out of bed.

Not that he looks bad. He isn’t sweating and his eyes seem clear, but he is paler than usual and there is something in the way he’s moving that screams of tiredness.

But Bard isn’t sure how Thorin will take it if he brings any of it up, so he decides to keep quiet instead. He is already here; the least Bard can do is feed him.

The silence between them has gotten more comfortable, so Bard doesn’t feel the need to fill it with inane chatter. Still, he tells Thorin about Sigrid’s latest achievement – she truly is flourishing helping him lead their people – because since having dinner with his nephews and Bard’s children, Thorin always asks about Bain, Sigrid and Tilda.

He has not taken to bringing gifts at every chance, but what he has brought has been thought of and – Bard suspects, though he hasn’t gotten confirmation yet – handmade by the King himself. Nothing outlandish, no jewels: Tilda one of the most beautiful dolls Bard has ever seen, Sigrid a charming jewel box and Bain a pair of boots. That Bard didn’t think Thorin had made himself, but the laces had silver holding them to the boots that he thought Thorin had helped put there.

His children too have taken to asking about Thorin and while they haven’t dined together again, they are usually around at least before dinner and spend a few pleasant moments together.

Tonight, neither of three is around and Bard thinks it for the best.

He quiets down once his tale is finished.

Thorin is eating slowly; from what Bard has seen the past few months, Thorin isn’t one to waste food. But it’s obvious his thoughts are far away. Still, Bard will not push where he is not wanted so he, too, eats slowly, does not want to pressure Thorin into believing he wishes him gone.

Strange, how things have changed into so little time. He and Thorin are… friends, now. And Bard doesn’t like seeing him look so down.

“Yesterday marked the anniversary of my grandfather’s murder,” Thorin suddenly cuts the silence and Bard’s eyes widen. He had half expected Thorin to remain quiet the rest of dinner and, certainly, if he had finally spoken, Bard hadn’t thought it would be… this.

“When we tried to retake Moria,” Thorin continues and Bard remembers he had mentioned it, months ago, when they barely knew each other. But now, he knows a bit more of the tale, had asked Balin why Thorin was called Oakenshield since it had seemed an unusual name for a King.

And Balin had told him a courageous, though sad, tale of a prince that took up nothing but an oaken shield to defend himself after his king’s – and grandfather’s – head was cut off.

“My brother, Frerin, was killed there too. It was the last time I saw my father, Thráin.”

Bard’s eyes have gotten wider and wider at the list of names. It is… a lot. He swallows, doesn’t know how to reply. But Thorin is still looking down at his food.

“I’m sorry,” Bard says, even though it feels far too little. “You carry… much grief.”

Thorin doesn’t seem to have heard, remains immobile until, suddenly, he heaves a great sigh.

“Everyone thought my father dead. But I searched every body and I did not find him… I knew he would never have abandoned us. I thought… the orcs must have him. They would send a ransom. Or his head. But they never did. I…” a pause, “I searched. Followed every rumour, no matter how slim the chances of it being real were.”

Bard wonders what that is like; to have spent decades looking for his father.

“Gandalf found him, just before we took back Erebor,” Thorin says and he finally looks up.

“So he was alive?”

Thorin nods, “he’s dead now. Taken by the darkness. All this time…” Thorin goes quiet and Bard raises a hand to lay on top of his, squeezes. He doesn’t think they’ve ever touched before. He doesn’t know if it holds any different meaning to dwarves either. But he hopes… he hopes Thorin feels what he is trying to convey: that Bard is here for him.

“I’m sorry,” Bard repeats, feeling inadequate. Truthfully… he does not know how Thorin is standing in front of him, having suffered such losses. Bard cannot imagine where he got the strength of will to continue to fight after such sights… Bard thinks he would have laid down to die.

“They should be here, to see Erebor reclaimed,” Thorin says and Bard simply squeezes his hand, because he does not have any good answer, not one that isn’t about the unfairness of life and that, he’s sure, is not what Thorin wants to hear – or deserves to.

So Bard continues to hold his hand, Thorin making no move to hold back, but he doesn’t pull away either, so Bard stays with his hand there, for as long as Thorin wishes it.

He has lost track of time when Thorin, finally, pulls his hand back.

“I am sorry. I should not have come.”

“If you wished to stay with your family, then you should never feel obligated to me. If you mean this because you believe it is how I feel… it is not. I am honoured, Thorin Oakenshield, that you would share your grief with me,” the words don’t quite flow from Bard’s mouth, unused to their formality but he believes them right.

Despite how surprised Thorin seems to hear them, there is something more weightless to his body now than hours before when he first arrived at Bard’s doorstep.

“Thank you.”

Bard nods, decides not to say anything else, which would simply cheapen the feeling. He meant his words and he believes Thorin sees it too.

The grief will never disappear… but Bard will help Thorin shoulder it, if he allows him.

He thinks, from the way Thorin remains sitting there, even as it grows darker, that he just might.

.

From Thorin’s expression as soon as he sees Bard, he can tell Thorin sees the exhaustion in his face. Still, he sends him a small smile and Thorin enters the house, slowly.

“If you would like to rest…” he starts and Bard shakes his head.

“No, please, stay. Let’s just not talk about anything official.”

Thorin raises an eyebrow and Bard makes a little noise because yes, when is the last time they actually talked about something formal? They will talk of their kingdoms (and how strange it still is, to think Bard stands as equal to the King of Erebor), but official matters they leave for other occasions.

“I can tell you how Kíli’s courting of Tauriel goes,” Thorin says once they’re sitting down with food in front of them and although there is some distaste in his tone, Bard thinks it’s there more for the appearance of things than any other reason. Thorin doesn’t seem to dislike Tauriel – except for her being an elf – and, from what Bard has seen, he has a hard time believing Thorin capable of refusing his nephews anything.

“Has he stepped his foot in it?” Bard asks, amused despite himself. If Kíli did, Bard cannot imagine it was anything that serious. He is also certain that, despite what many may believe, Tauriel won’t mind so much some tomfoolery.

“There has been some… cultural misunderstandings,” Thorin says and despite keeping his face neutral, Bard can almost see a twinkle in his eyes from amusement.

“I’m sure they’ll figure it out,” Bard says.

Thorin huffs, “yes.”

“You haven’t tried hard to keep them apart,” Bard says as they continue to eat. He hasn’t seen anything to corroborate his words, but something tells him he isn’t wrong.

“Kíli has made his choice. Trying to change his mind… it will push him away. I do not want to lose my nephew over who he loves. I will make my peace with it.” From Thorin’s tone, Bard assumes he already has, but he decides to keep quiet on it.

Dinner continues that way, with short stories traded between them, until the food has been taken away and they have stronger spirits in their hands, Thorin smoking his pipe as well.

He looks at ease. Bard doesn’t think he’s felt that way since before Laketown was burnt, not really.

Thorin raises an eyebrow and Bard knows that if he shakes his head, he will not force it.

Bard doesn’t shake his head. But he keeps quiet. It isn’t even that he doesn’t want to share his thoughts, but that he doesn’t know where to start. And, as much as he likes Thorin now, he isn’t sure he will be the best to understand him. He lived his whole life as a prince, as someone expected to lead. Bard has not. There’s a chasm between them he doesn’t think will ever pass.

“Have you heard of the Shire?”

The question is so unexpected Bard doesn’t say anything for several moments. But Thorin just continues to smoke calmly.

Finally, Bard answers him: “no.”

“It’s where Bilbo is from. Where the hobbits live. It is also where Gandalf told us to meet, to start our quest. He was the one who said we needed a hobbit in the company, that he would be our burglar.”

Bard blinks, “Bilbo didn’t look like a burglar.”

Thorin’s lips twitch up just on the right, “no, he’d never stolen a thing in his life, as he proudly told us.”

“Why did he say yes?”

This time, Thorin doesn’t continue his tale right away, instead taking some moments to think his words through. “At first, I think he simply wanted an adventure. To see more of the world. He complained but he did whatever was requested of him regarding the division of chores. But then… we ended up in the goblin kingdom, almost died. I thought he had escaped and was on his way home.”

“But he wasn’t.”

“No, he wasn’t. He stayed because despite how much he loved his home… his garden, his armchair… he wanted us to reclaim our home. And he would help us with it.”

“A noble act.”

“It is easier to make the hard choice when it seems like there is no other. I thought Bilbo… naïve, unaware of the world. And perhaps he was, a bit, but he was the most courageous of us all. It took me a shameful amount of time to see it.”

“He’s left, hasn’t he?”

Thorin smiles, “yes. I hope he will visit soon but I believe he will remain home for a while. To stop it from going to auction again, at least.”

“What?”

“Yes, apparently since he was gone for over a year, when he went back, they were auctioning off all his things.”

Bard blinks, “he must have loved that.”

Thorin huffs amused, “he’s sent me a list of exactly who was buying what.”

Bard smiles.

“Perhaps I will visit. It will be good for Fíli, to be in charge without me around,” Thorin continues.

Bard blinks, leans back on his chair. It is not as if he isn’t rigidly aware that Bain will be king after him. But he hopes… that he still has a lot more time before he must carry the crown himself.

“You have time,” Thorin says, as if he heard his thoughts.

Something else occurs to Bard. “You will see it.”

Thorin doesn’t ask for clarification. “It is likely. The line of Durin lives longer than most dwarves.”

“How old are you?”

“Almost two hundred. It is rare the dwarf that lives longer than two hundred and fifty years.”

Two hundred years. Of course, having met Thranduil (Bard doesn’t know how old the Elven King is, but at least a thousand years, he would assume), Bard probably shouldn’t be amazed by two hundred years, but considering he hasn’t yet reached forty…

“You’ve lived long,” Bard settles on, doesn’t know what else to say. Thorin blows smoke and he continues, “I am glad that Bain will have you there, then.”

For a moment, he wonders if he’s overreached but Thorin looks seriously at him.

“I promise I will be.”

Bard blinks, not having expected that. Not that he believed Thorin would simply cast Bain aside, but his vow…

“Thank you,” he says. He cannot promise the same but… “I will keep an eye on Fíli while you go on holiday.”

Thorin lets out a laugh at that and Bard knows that the weight of Dale remains on his shoulders, but he feels more relaxed. And perhaps… he can reach out to Thorin a bit more, for help in carrying the weight.

.

Thorin is aware that he is being quieter and more taciturn than usual, but he can’t seem to force some cheer on his face. The fact that if he absolutely had to, as with plenty of formal dinners that he’d rather not have but is forced, he would find the strength of will to do it but can’t quite be bothered around Bard does not escape him. Thorin is fully aware it is not because he thinks Bard below him.

“All is well?” Bard asks after a couple moments of silence and he sounds genuine, not asking simply for the sake of politeness.

Thorin chews on his words some moments. Being willing to not put on a merry face isn’t the same as wanting to share his troubles with Bard.

But… who else is there? His friends, of course, but they’re in an awkward position, considering they know Dís as well. Thorin doesn’t want them pulled into opposite directions. And he already knows most of their point of views’, anyhow. Bard… Thorin thinks he might know his position but…

“You don’t have to share what troubles you,” Bard says once Thorin has spent too long silent. He seems to mean it too, expression open as if to show he doesn’t take it to harm for Thorin to keep his thoughts to himself.

That, more than anything, is what makes Thorin open his mouth and say, “my sister has arrived.”

Bard blinks, then lets out a simple “oh?” He surely already knew; hundreds of dwarves from the Blue Mountains had arrived just three days before. More would arrive in the next year, perhaps longer, but this was the first of his people who had come back to Erebor in decades.

Despite the happiness of the moment, it had been a bittersweet one too.

“She… is angry at me,” not quite the word, but Thorin can’t seem to find it in himself to say disappointed. “I almost got her sons killed.”

Bard blinks, seems to be pondering his words before slowly saying, “she must have known the quest would be dangerous.”

“She didn’t want them to come. But I… I thought Fíli had to be by my side, as my heir. And Kíli… he would never have accepted being left behind. Dís knew the only way to keep them with her would have been to imprison them,” a pause. “And she was ready to do it, but I convinced her they would be safe with me. I… promised her I would look after them. Above all. Above my life. Above Erebor.” Thorin squeezes his lips together. “I did not keep my oath. I dishonoured myself. And I shamed my nephews.”

Bard’s eyes are wide by the end of Thorin’s tirade, who sighs and waves a hand, suddenly wanting to take the words back. “Forgive me, I did not mean to-”

“No,” Bard says, cutting him off and Thorin blinks. “No apology is necessary. Thank you for… trusting me with your thoughts.”

Thorin doesn’t know how to reply, so he simply nods. He does trust Bard, he realizes. He does not think the man will use this against him or mock him behind his back.

“Your nephews are alive. And perhaps… perhaps you did lose yourself for a time, but you pulled through. More than.”

Thorin huffs, “it was the minimum I could do. And I should have done it sooner. I…” Thorin pauses. Bard’s look is still open, as if Thorin can tell him whatever he wants and there will be no judgement. Thorin… does not have many to turn to with his worries. And the closest to him is the one most upset at him right now. Deservedly, but it does not make it hurt less.

“I know Fíli and Kíli still feel shame over how long it took us to come to our brethren’s aid.”

“They were loyal to you,” Bard says.

“And that is where they were wrong!” Thorin says, louder than before, and Bard leans back. He sighs, “apologies.” A pause, “perhaps I should go.”

“Not if you do not want to. I will not throw you out simply because you are upset.”

“I’m not being good company.”

Bard shrugs, “I’m sure you’ll understand perfectly when I say you’re not on the top ten of the worst conversations I’ve had just this past month.”

Thorin can’t help but to let out an amused sound; yes, he certainly knows what Bard is talking about.

They go silent after, Thorin not sure whether he even wants to continue the conversation.

“Why is Dís angry?” Bard asks and Thorin opens his mouth but Bard sends him a look, as if to force him to be honest, not to say something easy as in I almost got her sons killed. Which is true but… not the core of the matter and Bard knows it.

Hm; this is what he gets for having a smart husband.

Thorin swallows, “Fíli and Kíli are the most precious to Dís. She would give up all titles, everything she had for their lives, for their happiness. They are her real treasure.” Thorin pauses, thinks of several ways to finish his sentence, before finally settling on, “I did not treat them as such.”

Bard doesn’t say anything, though Thorin thinks the calm façade is more of an act than before. He has three children himself who, as far as Thorin has seen, is devoted to. He understands Dís. Thorin… he will not. Which both gladdens and saddens him.

“You’re not just their uncle,” Bard starts, slowly. “You’re their king too. I hope to never be in a position where I must choose between my children and my people.”

“You’d choose your children,” Thorin immediately says, not doubting it for a second.

Bard licks his lips, “for my people, that would not be the correct choice.”

Thorin blinks. He hadn’t quite seen it that way before, but he sees Bard’s point. Of course he would put his children above all. It does mean it would be easy or even, globally, the best.

Thorin clenches his jaw, “I chose gold above them.”

“No,” Bard says, “you chose your home. Of which they are a part of.”

Thorin swallows. In a voice made light, he says, “I believe you are making me better than I was.”

“Perhaps. Even when I was against you going to the mountain… I did not believe you wanted back in for the sake of it, of the gold, of the crown… but because it was where you belonged.”

“And I unleashed a dragon for it.”

Bard exhales, “it is doubtful the dragon would have simply passed in its sleep.” Thorin blinks, surprised by Bard’s words, who snorts, knowing they’re both thinking of how against going to Erebor Bard was.

“You should talk to your sister,” Bard prompts and Thorin exhales. Yes, he’s aware of that.

“You’ve never had a dwarf-woman mad at you.”

Bard laughs and Thorin blinks; he thinks it’s the first time he’s seen the man look so relaxed. “And I hopefully never will. But… family is family.”

Even as the smile lingers in the lines around Bard’s face, there is something in his expression that speaks of a story behind family is family. Thorin almost asks, but decides to leave it for another time.

For now, he will enjoy the companionable silence.

.

The next time they meet, Thorin is in a much better mood. He does not mention his sister and, while Bard is certainly happy they’ve hopefully talked about their issues, there is a part of him that finds himself wanting to ask about it, wanting to know the details.

Not for curiosity’s sake, but because… he cares for Thorin and he wants to know what is going on in his life.

How strange; five months ago they were little more than strangers, and not in particularly good terms with one another. Now, they are married, and while it is in name only, Bard finds that he now genuinely likes Thorin and the fact he has him in his life.

“What?” Thorin asks once they’ve sat down and Bard, unusually, has remained quiet.

He almost goes to shake his head and bring up another subject – he thinks Thorin will know he’s hiding something (strange to have that thought too; it has been a while since anyone has known Bard so well), but he won’t push it.

“We have been dining weekly for five months.”

Thorin hums, looks at ease. “Does it feel like too long or too little?” he sounds amused.

“Neither. It is just… strange. I feel like I know you better than I know most. Yet, not so long ago, we were strangers.”

“And on opposite sides,” Thorin says, who doesn’t usually beat around the bush over what happened between him reaching Erebor and the Orcs attacking. “And now we’re friends,” he concludes and Bard gives him a small smile.

“We are.”

“Dís… she called you a good influence on me,” Thorin’s words make Bard blink. He doesn’t think he’s ever been called a good influence in his life. He also doesn’t know how to feel over Thorin discussing him with his sister.

“I do not know if I deserve that title.”

Thorin sends him a look, “she was expecting to be the one to come to me so we could… resolve our issues. I am not… the most forthright when it comes to talking of…” his voice peters off.

Amused, Bard asks, “feelings?”

Thorin makes a face at that, but nods. Bard wonders if it’s a royal thing – though it doesn’t sound like it, from what Thorin is telling about Dís. Or from what Bard has witnessed from Fíli and Kíli. Perhaps just a specific Thorin thing, then.

Of course, Bard remembers why Thorin has had so much pressure on him for so long and it takes from the merriment.

“But I thought of what you said and I wanted to clear the air between us.”

“And you did.”

“Yes,” Thorin rolls his eyes, “and then Dís said that unless the gold sickness had done some magic to me, this personal growth was sure to be my husband’s good influence.”

Bard… isn’t sure how to take that. Except that, raising three children, it certainly sounds like something a sibling would say to another.

He smiles, “I’m happy you and Dís are better. And I’m thankful I could… influence it in whatever shape.”

Thorin nods, eats some, Bard following his example. “She is not wrong. You have… positively impacted me. And your children. I am thankful you let me be around them.”

Bard’s eyes widen, “I have no reason to keep you away from them.”

“No, but I know how precious they are to you. You did not have to choose to share them with me. But you have. And for that, I am thankful.”

Bard does not have the details of Fíli’s and Kíli’s childhoods. But, from what he has gathered, it is clear that Thorin has always been a big presence in their lives. He wonders if he misses them as children.

“You are kind to them,” is what Bard says.

“Children are our greatest treasure,” Thorin says, in a tone that brooks no argument.

Bard blinks, “is that what dwarves believe?”

Thorin nods.

“It’s a beautiful feeling,” Bard says and Thorin raises an eyebrow, which he understands even without words. “Men don’t always have children for the best reason.”

“Yes, of all the races… Men seem to have it the easiest procreating.”

Bard doesn’t know how to take that.

“There are those who say the Age of Men is coming,” Thorin continues and there is a look in his eyes that reminds Bard of all that he has seen.

Bard rarely looks beyond Dale’s borders. He keeps his eyes and ears open, but he’s mostly worried on whether it concerns his people or not. Things such as whose Age this belongs to… Bard will leave it to the great thinkers.

“And what do you believe?”

Thorin takes some moments to answer, “I think… Gandalf is right and an evil is growing.”

Bard frowns; he didn’t know they were discussing that. He leans back on his chair, “and what can we do?”

“Nothing. Pay attention. Perhaps send excursions out. But it seems the enemy will not let himself be seen clearly until he wishes it.”

Well… isn’t that reassuring.

“I do not mean to scare you,” Thorin says but he doesn’t sound apologetic. Bard waves it away.

“No, I must know of these things. It is just… new. I do not know the world as you do. It is hard to imagine how big it really is.”

“I think it is smaller than we imagine. And we are all more similar than we wish to see.”

Bard blinks, “maybe Dís is right and I am a good influence.”

Thorin lets out an amused sound at that.

“She wants to meet you,” Thorin says, changing the subject.

“I… would be honoured.”

Thorin smiles, like he never imagined otherwise. “Good, join us for dinner next week. My nephews will be there too and your children are welcome too, of course.”

Bard nods, feels content. This marriage certainly has been unexpected… and perhaps most surprising of it all is how well it has been going.

.

Thorin decides to wait at the mountain’s entrance for Bard and his children, Fíli accompanying him, since Kíli is off with Tauriel. She has not been invited for dinner (yet), so he will be joining them just at the right time.

Fíli is, for the most part, not fidgeting, but he also keeps stealing glances at Thorin that he’s been pretending not to notice because, in his experience, it doesn’t do to try and get his sister-sons to talk when they do not want to. Fíli will open up whenever he wants to and trying before he is ready will not lead anywhere good.

But Thorin also isn’t great at circumstance talk – well, to be honest, he sees it as a waste of time. Too many talk just to hear the sound of their voice. As a royal, he certainly knows he’s been guilty of that but Thorin is happy to stay silent just as much, especially when it’s with ones he cares for.

“Sáma is very pretty,” Fíli suddenly breaks the silence, making Thorin blink and turn to his nephew, who is looking ahead but, despite the beard, Thorin thinks he can see some redness in his cheeks.

Ah, Dáin’s daughter, who arrived just some days ago with her father, here to spend some time with Dís and see what further relations between the two kingdoms can look like.

Thorin cannot say a marriage had not crossed his mind, but it was not something he’d been planning on bringing up to Fíli anytime soon – or ever. Since Kíli was deciding – despite all good sense – to follow his heart, it seemed needlessly cruel for Thorin to try and find Fíli a bride. He trusted him to not also fall in love with an Elf, at least.

“She is,” he finally says, when too long has passed and he can tell Fíli has grown too nervous.

Fíli nods, keeps quiet.

“Have you talked to her a lot?”

“Just some,” he answers, turning to Thorin.

“Well, if you decide that you would like… more than talking, you have my support.”

Fíli smiles and Thorin feels like it’s been too long since he’s seen it.

“Thank you, uncle,” then, he leans his weight on Thorin, just for a moment, “I think Bard has mellowed you out.”

Thorin snorts, but he decides not to reply, his thoughts going to a darker place, that it is not Bard, but finally being back in Erebor, in their rightful place, not having to worry at every moment on how they will survive. Even in the Blue Mountains, Thorin had felt more often than not that what they had could escape through their hands as easy as smoke.

Fíli, who knows him too well, seems to realize some of that, for he leans back in, this time staying there and Thorin gives him a small smile. When they have more time, he will bring Sáma up again. He wants to know Fíli’s true thoughts and he hopes… he hopes his sister-son will let him hear them.

The door is opened. The royal family of Dale has arrived, alongside guards. Thorin knows Bard thinks their presence unnecessary, that there are more important things to do than ride alongside the four of them to Erebor and then stay around until they ride back but Thorin has been able to convince him that, apart from the image, the whole of the royal family should not be moving around unguarded.

Thorin does not doubt for a moment that Bard accepted it more based on his children than on his own safety.

They dismount outside, the horses being taken elsewhere and, once they are inside, Thorin approaches them with a smile, “welcome to Erebor.”

“Thank you for the invitation,” Bard replies and both Tilda and Sigrid give little bows, Sigrid’s more graceful than her sister’s. Thorin wants to tell them it is unnecessary but they seem happy enough with the gesture, so he doesn’t bother.

Fíli engages with Bain as they walk to Thorin’s personal quarters, Bard walking slowly beside him. It is not something that usually bothers Thorin, the fact Bard is a Man and, as such, they have very stark physical differences. Still, it is a gesture he appreciates.

To his surprise, Kíli is already inside. So is Dís, who is quick to put her hands on her waist.

“So, this is the Man my brother has married. To think he would give me a nephew and nieces so late in the game… and human, at that!” And she laughs, in a way that makes clear that she is truly very pleased with it all.

Thorin makes sure to keep his face neutral at her words. Yes, in a way he imagines Bard’s children are almost… his. But he has not spent nearly enough time to truly feel that way – or them him, he’s sure – and he does not want to force a bond where it is not wanted.

But Tilda gives him a small smile and Thorin smiles back.

“Come, come,” Dís waves them further in, “let us eat.”

“These are my quarters,” Thorin complains, simply because it is expected and there is nothing like Dís’ presence to take him back to being a young Dwarf.

“Yes, yes, you are the mighty king, oh Thorin, son of Thráin,” Dís says and Tilda lets out a little giggle.

“My sister respects me much, as you can see,” Thorin deadpans.

“Oh, the stories I could tell you of the distinguished King Under the Mountain.”

“Please,” Bard says, sends a small smile Thorin’s way, “do tell.”

Thorin just rolls his eyes. Yes, they are sure to be embarrassing but he knows what Dís is trying to do – dismiss all awkwardness from this meal. Thorin does not think a few hits to his ego a price too hefty to pay.

Dís laughs and Thorin cannot help but to smile at the sight. It had been far too long without his sister, truly. It is good to see her happy, back where they all belong.

To have made it to Erebor without her, without his sister-sons… it would not have been worth it.

Bard puts a hand on his shoulder – Thorin does not have to look to know it’s his – and pushes him slightly forward, Thorin huffing, but going along with it.

As promised, Dís regales them with tales of Thorin’s antics as a young prince, masterfully skipping how the stories change from before and after Smaug’s coming. Kíli and Fíli join up too, mostly to show Thorin’s utter unpreparedness to care for children, especially sick ones. …And specifically, when he did not know how serious it was or not and was afraid they were more at death’s door than with a simple cold.

At first, Sigrid and Bain send him looks as if expecting Thorin to get upset over the stories, but he sees them relax and more easily interact with the stories as they come and Thorin continues to huff his way through them or to interject when he feels the truth is being twisted beyond what he can accept but never getting angry.

The dinner takes longer than usual, food not quite flying over the table, but being moved by Fíli and Kíli almost too fast for the eyes to follow, since none of them bother having Dwarfs serve them. He remembers a time when it was different, when there was usually one or two around – who knew the royal family better than they knew themselves – but it has been too many years. Thorin and Dís have gotten used to this way, may even prefer it and Thorin cannot imagine his sister-sons easily accepting being served, at least in private.

Once they’re on dessert, Tilda suddenly pipes up, “is it time for singing, uncle Thorin?”

Thorin can see he’s not the only one surprised by the endearment, Bard’s eyes going a bit wide, and Dís looking delighted beyond words. Thorin, for his part, decides to act as if this isn’t the first time Tilda has called him that. So, he nods, “it is.”

“Oh, you must sing Far Over the Misty Mountains Cold. It has been far too long since I’ve heard it,” Dís says.

“There’s a new ending,” Fíli says and Thorin sends him a look. He’s heard the new version and he cannot say he hates it, but the part about the king coming unto his hall and the wyrm being dead… while it is true, it has changed the song. Perhaps it is not all bad; it used to be a promise that one day Erebor would be theirs again.

The new version is not the one he first heard from his father.

From Dís’ slight smile, he can tell she feels the same.

But, instead of any of that, what she says is, “then I must certainly hear it. Come, Thorin, it has been too long since I’ve heard you sing.”

There is, Thorin knows, no getting out of this.

“Very well,” he gets up.

He remembers, suddenly, the last time he sang the original version, in Bilbo’s house. It feels like a lifetime ago.

Now, surrounded by his family – however unexpected some members of it are – it feels like the close of a cycle to sing it again.

Fíli, Kíli and Dís join in humming, sometimes with the words too, a song that every Erebor dwarf knows by heart. Thorin does as requested and sings the new version, Dís’ eyes shining and, to his surprise, so do every human’s.

The children even join in when Fíli and Kíli, at the end, start hitting the table, even as they look a bit unsure over the action.

“My brother truly has a beautiful voice,” Dís compliments once the noise has quieted down and Thorin does a little bow, sends her a genuine look before sitting back down.

Bard smiles at him too and Thorin promises to himself he will focus more on moments like these, that he will look at this night as the first of many and not one special occasion never to be repeated.

His quarters are large enough for Bard and his children to spend the night, but when Bard says it is time for them to be on their way, Thorin does not try and sway his mind. The children do not put up a protest, which means they must surely be tired, and wish for their own beds.

Thorin receives Tilda’s hug in surprise, but he hugs her back and Sigrid and Bain, although they do not hug him, send him smiles honest enough that Thorin feels as if he has passed some test.

“I like him,” Dís says once it’s just the two of them, the table filled with plates but all in their neat rows, Fíli and Kíli having seen to it, to the delight of the children when they had not broken a single one.

Thorin hums, inhaling from his pipe, then passing it to Dís. He raises an eyebrow at her look, which seems assessing. From anyone else, it would put him on alert. But Dís… perhaps he will not like whatever she is thinking, but she has a way of seeing what he has missed. And she’s certainly never shied from speaking her mind, to him or to anyone else.

When she remains quiet, however, Thorin raises an eyebrow and says, “I’m glad you like my husband.”

And that seems to do the trick, Dís’ eyes getting a familiar glint in them and still, at the same time, making Thorin’s stomach squeeze, as he remembers so many other nights when it was just the two of them after her sons had been put to bed. There had been joyful moments in the midst of the uncertainty, sure, but he believes Dís feels the weight off her shoulders too. No matter what they do next… Fíli and Kíli have a true home.

“I do,” Dís replies. “I have been wondering about that.”

“What?”

“Your marriage.”

“A political match. But I do like Bard. At the beginning… I do not believe we made great first impressions on one another. But we are friends. Balin’s idea of the weekly dinner was not without its merits.”

Dís snorts, “high praise, from you. But that is not what I meant.” Thorin waves a hand, to get her to get to the point. Not that he doubts Dís would stop even if he begged on his knees. “There is friendship. I am glad. Is there… more?”

Thorin blinks, for a moment not understanding her words, almost as if she’d spoken another language.

Once he does, he can’t help but to straighten in his chair.

“What?” he asks with a frown.

“It is fine if there is not. Romantic love is not needed to live a fulfilled life and I see how much happier you are here, Thorin. You were born to be a king and my heart is full in a way it has not been for many years from seeing you finally being in your rightful place. But… if there is a chance for more, if you are interested in that…” Dís lets the rest of her sentence die out.

Thorin opens his mouth, ready to tell her “I am not” except… is he not?

“I have not thought of it before,” Thorin says, honest. He thinks there are two more Dwarfs (and one Hobbit) who could get him to admit such a thing.

“Perhaps you should,” Dís says, gives him back the pipe, Thorin inhaling from it absent-mindedly.

Hmm, perhaps so.

.

For the first time in months, Thorin considers cancelling their weekly dinner. Every free moment he’s had the past week – and some that weren’t so free – had been spent thinking on Dís’ words, as she seems to well know, from the looks she’d given him.

But Dís had not brought it up again and Thorin certainly had not either.

At first, he had thought she was seeing things that were not there, but now… yes, he was fond of Bard. Was there more to it? Thorin had had dalliances here and there, but nothing serious, certainly not for many years.

He imagines most would think this is the best possible outcome: to fall in love with the one he is already married to.

Since Thorin can’t figure out if he actually is in love with Bard or not, he will leave it being a good or bad thing for later.

He needs more time. But Bard will worry if he cancels and Thorin knows he has been struggling with being King; he will not add to the stress the Man is under.

And so, Thorin makes his way slowly to Bard’s house. He would never wish for an Orc attack but… Thorin would more easily deal with that than the way his stomach seems twisted in knots.

When Bard opens the door, hair in disarray around his face, Thorin forgets all about his worries on how to act normal with him.

“What’s wrong?” he immediately asks.

Bard huffs, shakes his head, “come on in,” he moves back so Thorin can enter. “Nothing is wrong. Tilda is sick.”

Thorin blinks. As he turns to Bard, who has just closed the door, he frowns, “is it serious?”

Bard gives him a small smile, “no. Just a fever. But she’s never been a good sick patient so it has been… tiring.”

Thorin sends him a look; yes, he’s sure Bard has been working just as hard as normal even as he also takes care of a sick child. Though Thorin does not believe Sigrid, at least, would leave all responsibility to her father. But he can also imagine Bard trying to keep the other two away so they don’t get sick as well.

“Don’t you start,” Bard mutters, leads him towards the familiar dining room.

“I did not say anything,” Thorin says as he sits down and Bard sends him a look, sitting as well.

“I saw that look.”

Thorin raises an eyebrow, “so you have taken a break from ruling Dale to take care of Tilda?”

The girl that usually serves their food walks in and Bard waits until it is done and they have both thanked her to answer, “you know I haven’t. You wouldn’t.”

“I do not have small children under my care.”

Bard smiles quickly, “I’ll tell Sigrid and Bain you called them that.”

Thorin doesn’t bother with a reply. He’s glad that Bard seems in good spirits, at least, despite the tiredness.

Of course, that only makes Thorin notice the Man’s looks once more, remembering Dís’ words… but no, this is very clearly not the moment. Certainly not without Thorin understanding his feelings himself.

Yes, he should focus more on himself.

“And you? Is everything alright?” Bard sounds a bit concerned and Thorin could kick himself. He must act normal; the last thing he wants is to put more on Bard’s plate.

“Yes,” he nods. “Dís is… acting as a younger sister.”

Bard smiles, “I know you missed her.”

“Tremendously,” Thorin deadpans. “It does not mean she isn’t a pain in the ass.”

Bard lets out a small laugh and the conversation moves on, no serious topic coming up, but they eat slowly and they do not run out of topics.

Before they can call for dessert, the door opens and Thorin already knows who will come, since the girl never shows up unless called for.

“Tilda,” Bard calls out, pushing his chair back and getting up, “what’s wrong?”

“’Can’t sleep,” Tilda says, walking to Bard, who picks her up and sits back down with her on his lap. He touches her forehead with the back of his head, but doesn’t seem overly concerned.

Tilda lays her head against his shoulder, face turned to Thorin, eyes half-lidded, clearly tired.

“I’m sorry you don’t feel well, Tilda,” Thorin says in a low voice.

She blinks, “thank you.”

Bard sends him an apologetic glance but Thorin just shakes his head.

“Do you think a song would help?” he asks.

“You do not have-”

“I was talking to Tilda,” Thorin says, interrupting Bard, who closes his mouth with a huff.

Tilda nods, “please.”

“Very well,” Thorin says and, this time, the song he chooses is one of a brave dwarf girl, who lost her home to magic and had to fight to get it back, meeting friends – especially talking animals – on her journey.

By the time he finishes – dwarvish songs are rarely short – Tilda is asleep.

“I am afraid if I get up, I will wake her,” Bard says in a low tone.

“Then we will stay here,” Thorin says, simply.

Bard sends him a look, “you do not have to.”

“I know,” Thorin replies, leaves it at that. Bard continues to look at him for some more moments, but then he nods.

He seems to be pondering some thought, Thorin leaving him to it, enjoying the quietness. He would enjoy a pipe accompanying it even more, but he doesn’t want the smoke to disturb Tilda.

“Would you sing more?” Bard finally asks, making Thorin blink, surprised.

“Yes,” he answers and, since he does not have to search for a song appropriate for children, he chooses a tragedy. He does not think it is only sad; yes, the lovers are separated at the end, but the song does not focus on just the loss, but on having loved in the first place. Is that not what makes it worth a song? Makes it all worth?

As he finishes, Bard keeps quiet for a few moments. “Your sister was right,” he finally speaks, voice seeming rougher than usual, “you have a beautiful voice.”

“Thank you,” Thorin says and he thinks, for the first time in decades, he might just be blushing.

Damn Dís and her words.

But, looking at Bard content in his seat, Tilda peacefully sleeping in his lap, Thorin cannot hate her for opening his eyes to the possibilities.

What, exactly, they are and what they will lead to, Thorin cannot yet tell. But he thinks he is willing to, at least, look at them with his eyes open.

.

There is something in Thorin’s mind. Bard is sure that it is not obvious for most, only for Thorin’s family and closest friends and advisors. And Bard, who now has the honour of being part of the small group that Thorin trusts to show his thoughts.

Not that that means that he actually is showing them. No, he’s simply making it obvious that there’s something… Bard wouldn’t say bothering him, since Thorin doesn’t seem upset. Just… more inward focused than usual.

Bard isn’t entirely sure when it started; two weeks ago, Tilda was sick and Bard had not been a very good host. Although, as much as he hates that Tilda was suffering, he cannot help how much he enjoyed Thorin singing, even when Bard was the only one awake to hear it.

The week before they had talked of their kingdoms and families, Bard telling Thorin what his children had been up to, Thorin relating some more hilarity from Kíli’s courting (Bard doesn’t think Thorin has much room to talk, since he himself skipped all courting but he keeps that to himself).

It has been over six months of being married to a Dwarf and of weekly dinners.

“What is on your mind?” Thorin asks and Bard almost turns the question on him.

Instead, he replies, “we’ve been married over half a year.”

Thorin almost spits out the wine he’d just drank and Bard’s eyes go wide as he starts to get up, but Thorin waves him away.

“I’m fine,” he says in a rough voice.

When Bard is sure Thorin isn’t in danger of chocking on wine (Elvish, wouldn’t Thranduil love that), he raises an eyebrow, “despise the married life so much?”

Thorin sends him a look and it doesn’t escape Bard that six months ago, that might have been exactly what Thorin was thinking but he is sure that it isn’t now.

“Yes,” Thorin deadpans, “what burden to be married to another King, who I dine with every week. Truly, what weight I must carry.”

Bard snorts; no one does straight-faced humour quite like Thorin.

“Out of the two of us,” Thorin continues and there is something in his eyes and tone that makes Bard straighten in his chair, “you are the one that has anything to compare this to.”

Bard blinks, almost sure that he is misunderstanding Thorin’s words. But no, from the look in his face, he really is asking about Bard’s wife.

He leans back; it is not as if Kyra is never in Bard’s mind. She is missed, terribly, for him, and for their children.

“The situations are very different,” Bard says, trying for a neutral tone. Truthfully, he does not know why Thorin has brought it up – well, technically, it is Bard who first mentioned their marriage, but it is Thorin who has decided to bring up his late wife.

“You never speak of her. You do not have to,” he adds, quickly, “but if you would like to…”

Bard studies Thorin, frowning. He still doesn’t understand what point – if any – Thorin is trying to make.

He raises an eyebrow, “once upon a time, you were not interested.”

Thorin lowers his eyes, apparently ashamed, “I apologize over that.”

Bard nods back, can’t quite get himself to tell him it’s fine, even though it isn’t a memory he often revisits. Nonetheless, Thorin’s actions before getting on his barge had been rude and Bard sees no reason to simply ignore them.

“Why are you bringing her up now?”

Thorin thinks of his reply for several moments, “I realized I do not even know her name.”

Bard does not think that is all there is to it but if stubbornness is an overall Dwarven characteristic, he knows Thorin takes it to an extreme. If he does not wish to share his thoughts, he will not.

“Kyra,” Bard finally says and Thorin nods, keeps silent. He is giving him room to continue or not and, for a moment, Bard is set on not, keeping all memories and thoughts of Kyra to himself. But… it is not as if he can talk to his children about her as he can to anyone else. There are those who still remember her, of course, but Bard does not blame anyone for not thinking of her as he does.

“We got married young. We had known each other as children; she was older by two years, the sister of a close friend. I used to pull her hair and run from her. And one day… I looked at her and saw the most beautiful woman in my life.”

“And she accepted your feelings just like that?”

Bard laughs, “of course not. I was a runt. And I did not make a great first impression trying to court her. But I was serious about it and, eventually, she gave me a chance. She said it was the only one and that if I squandered it, she would throw me into the lake and never talk to me again.”

“A woman of convictions.”

Bard nods, “yes. Life was not always easy but… she made it better.”

Thorin keeps quiet. Bard sighs, “she died giving birth to Tilda. It is, unfortunately, not an uncommon occurrence.”

“No, it is not,” Thorin says and Bard blinks because, from his tone, he is speaking from experience. “My mother died giving birth to my brother.”

The one who died alongside their grandfather, Bard remembers.

“What was his name?” Bard asks.

“Frerin. He was… not like me. He was wild, always running from his tutors, never standing still… And yet, he had a way of looking at you…” Thorin shakes his head, “he was good at pulling me out of my thoughts. At making me talk until we found a solution for a problem I thought unsolvable. And to make me see not everything had to involve force. He was not a coward but he never forgot that actions taken in haste may bring consequences that we had not expected.”

“A wise Dwarf.”

Thorin nods, “he was. Over a hundred years since he was killed… and yet, I still miss him.”

A hundred years of grief… Bard cannot imagine it. If it were not for his children, he would not have made it past these few years.

“I do not know how he would have felt retaking Erebor. If he would have tried to stop me or not. But he would have joined the quest, made lighter the dark moments.

“And he would take every moment to jape about our marriage,” Thorin finishes.

“From my experience raising three children, that is the role of the youngest.”

Thorin lets out an amused huff, “yes, so it seems.”

“I will share a story about Kyra if you share one about Frerin,” Bard says and it is Thorin’s turn to study him. But, finally, he nods and tells Bard about stealing cakes with his brother and sister, a story that Bard wonders if his nephews have ever heard, if anyone else has.

He feels honoured to listen to it and, when he shares his own story about the ventures he got into while trying to find a beautiful, but affordable, ring to Kyra, he thinks Thorin is feeling the same.

.

Bard keeps stealing glances at him. He does not do it furtively; Thorin would say he is incapable of it, but he’s been learning, using those skills in meetings. Thorin doesn’t know if he’s too tired now or he sees no point in trying to hide from Thorin, just as Thorin had decided that, despite the fact there is clearly something on his mind, he would rather dine with Bard than alone.

“Will you share your thoughts?” Bard asks after dessert, as has become their habit. Food means light conversation, then drinks once the table is clear and the harder subjects may come up. It is not always that one does but neither of them has lived what could be called an easy life.

Thorin doesn’t say anything right away, instead taking a sip from his ale – dwarvish, a gift, though not from him.

There is more than one subject he could bring up. There is always something happening in the mountain – or outside it, but not so far that they can close their eyes and cover their ears and pretend it is not their business (Thorin will not let it, at least), a new worry popping up before Thorin has dealt with the last half a dozen.

But, this particular night, there is one specific subject on his mind.

It was two weeks before that he and Bard talked about Frerin and he has been on Thorin’s mind. Specifically, how different the quest would have been with him in it. How different Thorin would have been.

“Fíli has brought up moving the gold,” Thorin finally says and Bard blinks, clearly surprised by the topic.

“Oh,” he lets out, raises his glass but doesn’t drink from it. Instead, he studies Thorin, who simply stares back. He knows what Bard is looking for and he can’t quite blame him for it.

“We can’t be sure all dragons are extinct,” Thorin continues because that was Fíli’s argument and he knows it is the right one. And yet… Thorin cannot help but wonder if there is a part of Fíli that fears the gold sickness coming for him too.

“That is true,” Bard says, in the most neutral tone Thorin has ever heard from him.

But instead of getting mad, he snorts. It’s not kingly but he thinks he and Bard are far beyond that. Besides, it will not be a former bardman judging him for acting less than regal.

“Say what you really think.” Thorin raises an eyebrow, “you’ve never been shy of it.”

Bard lets out a chuckle, “yes, I suppose not. Very well, then. How do you feel about it?”

Thorin exhales, “I do not want to keep it by myself for the sake of it. But it is a symbol. Of Erebor’s might.”

“Of you retaking it,” Bard says and Thorin nods.

“Yes.”

“Where would you move it? If you can tell me.”

“Divide it. We are also discussing retaking Moria.”

Bard blinks, “is that wise?”

“If the past moons have taught us anything it is that we must prepare for all eventualities. The goblins and orcs will not leave by themselves. The longer they linger, the heavier the toll to remove them.”

“Does Gandalf have anything to do with this? And his council?”

“There have been letters. But this was always in the plans.”

Bard takes a few moments to ask the obvious question: “would you go?”

“Most likely. Fíli… he would be the commander. Kíli will not easily accept to be left behind but it is dangerous. If I go… perhaps we have a chance to force him to stay.”

“The heirs can’t all go.”

“No. But Fíli… despite his actions at the Battle of the Five Armies, he must continue to prove himself. The way he was raised, the fears he will… succumb to madness one day…”

“Is that what the general opinion is?” Bard asks and he sounds genuinely indignant on Fíli’s behalf.

“Not general. But there are murmurs. And we must keep them that way. Fíli is aware of this,” Thorin pauses. “I think he fears it too.”

“Is that why he wants the gold gone?”

“Not all of it.”

“Do you think the rumours are right?” Bard asks, never one to back down from the hard questions.

Thorin exhales, “I do not know. I… I would have told you I did not think I would have surrendered to it myself but… perhaps that is a lie. Fíli and Kíli… they were not raised in riches. I regret they did not have an easier life. But… perhaps it is not all bad. I believe Fíli will be a different king than we have always had.” Thorin pauses, Bard seeming to know he isn’t done with his thought process. “I only wish to provide him a good example, so that he may think of me to follow my example, as I do with my father and grandfather.”

“They erred too. We all do.”

Thorin nods.

“I hope… I hope you provide an example for Bain as well.”

“He is always welcome,” Thorin promises, would even if Bard didn’t ask. He is fond of Bard’s children and he finds that he is looking forward to see the women and man they grow into.

Thorin does not return to the subject of the gold or Fíli again. It will continue to trouble him but so do plenty other subjects. Talking about it at least diminishes its weight.

.

Bard doesn’t hear what Kíli says, but he sees the reactions it gathers: Bain and Tilda laughing, Sigrid snorting, then immediately covering her mouth, ashamed, which makes Kíli laugh and Tauriel smiles at him, fondly, and catches Bard’s eye, who smiles back.

“Children, the lot of them,” Dís says but there’s nothing but fondness in her tone.

Bard has dealt with her in an official capacity, but not often. To him, this is who Dís is: sister to Thorin and a lovely, strong-headed (Bard doesn’t think she would have survived otherwise) mother to her sons. And yet, she’s still the sister to the king of Erebor, once the greatest Dwarf kingdom and, from what Bard can tell, on its way to reclaim the title.

How strange, when he puts it that way.

“It is good to see them happy,” Thorin says, in a quiet tone, loud enough only for Dís and, on his other side, Bard.

“It is,” Bard agrees, hears Kíli continuing his tale – it involves him and Fíli climbing up a tree to escape Dwalin’s training. What Bard didn’t catch is exactly when this took place: when they were children, or just two weeks ago? Knowing the two of them, it could be either option.

Bard catches Dís’ eye, leaning back in her chair, eyes squinting, the picture of easiness and happiness. Bard knows it isn’t quite as easy as that but, right now, all of them together, it feels like it could be. He promises himself to remember the feeling later, both in council meetings as when his children are yelling at each other.

At the end of Kíli’s story Bard has decided that it took place before they reclaimed Erebor, but that’s all he’s certain of and while he thinks he and Fíli wouldn’t be too insulted if he wondered out loud if they were children when the hiding from Dwalin took place, he decides he can live with not knowing the answer.

“Will you sing for us, uncle Thorin?” Tilda asks and no one bats an eye, neither at the title nor the request. It is what all of Bard’s children have taken to calling him, though Sigrid and Bain are more uncertain about it. And Tilda certainly never misses a chance to hear Thorin’s singing; she’s always liked music, but Bard has never particularly enjoyed the sound of his voice singing and it seems he passed that trait to Sigrid and Bain.

“Do you have any request?”

“Something to dance to,” surprisingly, it’s Fíli who answers, getting up and offering Tilda a hand, who immediately accepts it. Kíli follows his example, getting up and moving to Sigrid, who looks surprised and turns to Tauriel, but she simply smiles, so Sigrid gets up too.

Bard waits to see if Bain will do anything, but he seems too shy, not looking anywhere near Tauriel, and Bard turns first to Dís, but she sends him a look as if saying don’t even think about it so he gets up to offer to dance with Tauriel.

“I do not know any Dwarvish dance,” she says once they’re standing in front of each other, holding each other’s hands, as Fíli and Kíli are doing to their partners.

“And you think I do?”

“Well, at least there are not many witnesses to our embarrassment.”

Bard sincerely doubts it’s going to be one measly dance embarrassing Tauriel, but he keeps the words to himself.

Thorin starts singing and, as promised, it is something fun to dance to, which starts of simple enough but ends with Kíli and Fíli dancing together and the rest of them clapping, when they stop being able to catch up to their quick steps and jumps.

Kíli and Fíli are kind enough to teach them the steps before Thorin sings it a second time and, this time, Kíli gets Tauriel, Fíli Tilda and Bard his oldest daughter.

She should learn more dancing, he realizes, and most likely more formal.

“What are you brooding about?” Sigrid asks in a low tone. They’re dancing far slower than the other four and Kíli calls them out for it, but Sigrid makes no move to try and keep up, so Bard doesn’t either.

“I was just thinking it might not be amiss for you to learn to dance.”

“Stop thinking of possible matches, da.”

“I can’t. You deserve a good husband.”

Sigrid raises an eyebrow, “and you think I won’t? When I have you and uncle Thorin to make sure the match is well suited?”

Bard can’t hide the look of surprise in his face and Sigrid seems to understand why – he hadn’t considered Thorin would be a part of the decision – but she just smiles and, in a quiet tone, so as not to be overheard, says, “he’s part of the family now.”

“He is,” Bard lets it come out a bit questioning and Sigrid, as always, understands what he doesn’t ask.

“I like it,” she says. “We all do. It’s not what we expected but… a lot hasn’t turned out that way. But it’s turned out alright.”

“It has,” Bard says, finds he quite means it.

“Perhaps you too will dance one day.”

Bard lets out a laugh. They hadn’t at their wedding and he doesn’t expect that to change anytime soon. Then again… their wedding and how… perfunctory it all was, to say the very least, seems like a long time ago.

Perhaps…

But that isn’t a thought to be having now.

“Come, we’re getting left behind,” he tells Sigrid, who laughs, but accepts the change in pace, the others loudly cheering them on. Bard isn’t entirely certain he won’t end up on his ass before the night is over, but he finds he’s more than willing to deal with that.

.

“Will this ever end?” Bard asks, finally going back to his food, even though it’s gone cold. But too many years of struggling to feed his family have made sure his mouth barely complaints at it. He could have it re-heated, but it’s a fleeting thought; Bard has eaten plenty of cold food and it’s never killed him, it won’t now.

Thorin chuckles as he too digs in and Bard gets ready to offer to get the food warmed up, but Thorin acts as if he too barely notices it.

Thorin had been kind enough to offer to go over some papers with Bard – to do with taxes! As if Bard knows anything about that – and now, here they are.

“In a couple of years, you will wonder you ever struggled with any of it,” Thorin says.

“I hope not,” Bard replies, serious. “I never want to forget where I come from.”

Thorin pauses with the fork halfway to his mouth, then finishes the gesture, slowly chewing and swallowing before speaking. “I do not believe you will.”

Bard isn’t entirely sure if that’s a compliment or an insult. No, he thinks he knows exactly which side the coin would land on some months ago but now… It is a fact, if nothing else.

“And you will be there to remind me if I do,” Bard says and, once again, his words make Thorin pause. This time he simply hums, continues to eat, but Bard feels as if there is more in his mind. Still, he does not prod, just continues to eat.

But Thorin keeps stealing glances at him, making Bard feel nervous. Is it the taxes? It had not seemed as if Thorin had found some blunder that Bard was going to have to pay dearly for. His nephews?

“My sister,” Thorin starts but he doesn’t sound concerned. If anything, he sounds put-upon. Bard feels his heart rate slowing down once more.

Bard waits for a few moments but Thorin does not continue.

“Your sister?”

Thorin sighs, then leans back in his chair. But his eyes, when they set on Bard, are serious, studying him like he has not done in some time.

“After meeting you, she asked if there was more to our marriage than friendship,” Thorin says and, not for the first time, Bard is caught off guard by his words.

Bard blinks. “Ah,” he lets out. Something in his tone or face must give away some of his thoughts for Thorin frowns.

“You have thought of this?”

Bard shrugs, trying for nonchalant, not sure how well he manages. “At first.”

“At first?” Thorin asks, sounding genuinely confused. That, more than anything, makes Bard not simply open his mouth and start talking. He does not want to be misunderstood.

“Marriage, for Men, is usually… more than an alliance. Even when it starts that way.”

Thorin blinks, then frowns. “Did you think… that is why I offered marriage?”

Bard laughs, genuine. “No, I did not think you had… fallen madly in love with me. I understood the significance of the marriage alliance. I accepted it. But… perhaps having been married before, I did wonder if… more would come.”

Thorin studies him for some moments. His face changes slightly, but not enough for Bard to begin to even guess at his thoughts. Is he hating what Bard is saying? No?

“But… you no longer wonder?” The words come out slowly, like Thorin isn’t entirely certain of wanting them out.

Perhaps Bard should not be as surprised by the question as he is. Thorin brought the subject up in the first place, it has clearly been on his mind. For some time. Is this why he has noticed some alterations in his behaviour here and there? But not for the past couple of dinners, he’s sure.

So Thorin has made up his mind of what he wants – and doesn’t – from their marriage?

It takes Bard some moments to decide how to answer.

“I cannot say with certainty. But I do not… feel that we are lacking in anything.”

“That is not the same as not wanting more,” Thorin says. Of course he wouldn’t take the out Bard was giving him.

Bard sighs, “no, it is not.” Thorin keeps silent and Bard, deciding he will not be a coward about this, asks, “do you want more?”

Thorin takes some moments to start. “Before the dragon came, I was betrothed. But she was to marry a prince, eventually be wife to a king, not to a homeless dwarf. I broke the engagement. I did not think of marriage while in the Blue Mountains. Some thought I should but then Dís got married and had Fíli and Kíli, and they were my heirs.” A pause, another intense moment of being studied. “I told you what Dís said because it has been on my mind.”

He doesn’t continue and Bard waits him out, but Thorin keeps silent. He huffs, “and what do you think?”

“I do not believe we lack anything either. You have… become a dear friend.”

“I feel the same.”

Thorin opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, “I do not know if I will ever feel more for you.”

Bard blinks, “what you feel is enough.”

“So you do not want more?”

Bard exhales, leans back in his chair, “truthfully… I do not know.” He lets out an amused huff, “I have been too busy and too tired to think on it. But… I do know that despite how unexpected this marriage has been… I am glad that it is more than a political match.”

Thorin waits a few moments to ask, “where does that lead us?”

Bard shrugs, “must it lead anywhere?” Thorin frowns, so Bard continues, now leaning forward, “the way I see it, there are two in this marriage. If you and I are happy with things as they stand… then that is enough.”

“And if it stops? Being enough?”

It’s Bard’s turn to look at him seriously, “then I believe that we care enough for each other to be honest.”

Thorin takes that in. Then he offers a hand, “to us being honest with each other. Always.”

Bard grins, takes his hand, not quite in a handshake, holds onto it, feels the calluses that they share, though for different reasons. Now this is a vow that Bard is quite happy to stand by.

.

“This brings back memories,” Dís says as she reaches Thorin, who nods, as he knows exactly what she’s talking about. Dale doesn’t look as it did before Smaug came, but it is familiar enough, a oh, there you are feeling that being surrounded by Dwarves, Men and Elves only intensifies.

It is an end of Autumn festival, something Dwarves don’t usually bother with and, from Bard’s tales, neither did the Men of Laketown, but the past few months have been kind to them – more than expected – and so Men had decided to throw a party to celebrate and had generously invited their neighbours.

“Perhaps we might throw our own festival, once Winter ends.”

Thorin makes a noise, using it to let her know he heard her and will consider it, but he’s not saying yes right away. Not before they have actually lived through Winter. The last one was harsh and their conditions are much better but Thorin will not put the cart in front of the ponies.

Dís sighs loudly, “you could show more merriment.”

“Someone would faint from it,” Thorin says, making Dís snort, as was his intent.

Thorin knows the reputation he has and, for the most part, sees no reason in trying to change it. His family and friends know there is more to him than harsh words and a steely glare, and his people don’t seem too bothered about it either.

Before Dís can reply – something that will make Thorin crack a smile, he’s sure – Tilda is making her way to him, halfway between running and jumping.

She looks very pretty in a blue wool dress, since the temperature has gone down in the past weeks.

“Uncle Thorin!” she exclaims as she reaches him, smile wide on her face, so Thorin knows nothing bad is going on. “Will you dance with me?”

He blinks, caught off guard, while Dís lets out a little laugh beside him.

Thorin can admit to himself that if it were any other Men, even Sigrid, he would probably say no, simply because of how much taller they are than him. But Tilda is still slightly shorter. From a distance, they’ll probably look like a pair of children together. But Thorin decides he does not care.

He bows his head, offers his hand, “it would be a pleasure, Miss Tilda.”

The title makes her giggle and then she’s grabbing onto his hand – so much smaller – and dragging him away, where there are already plenty of other people dancing, sometimes in groups. Thorin sees Kíli and Tauriel dancing and they do not look as ridiculous as he would have expected.

“Do you know this one?” she asks, taking a hold of his other hand too.

“No. You will have to teach me.”

Tilda nods, suddenly serious, though there’s still a shine to her eyes. She looks remarkably like her father; Thorin wonders if Bard has a picture of Kyra. He would like to analyse it and see if he can find what comes from which parent in their children.

The dance is not too hard to learn. It has been a while since Thorin has danced, but he has always had good rhythm and Tilda is an enthusiastic partner, clearly more interested in having fun than following the exact correct steps. Still, she is a good teacher and Thorin stays for the next two dances, before passing Tilda on to Sigrid.

He locates Bain – in a circle of some of the Men that have been steadily increasing in profits the past few months. He doesn’t seem to be talking, but is paying attention to the conversation.

Satisfied that all children are accounted for – and seem to be enjoying themselves –, Thorin makes his way to Bard, an Elf giving him a slight bow before leaving them alone.

“This is going well,” Bard says, clearly relieved. Thorin knows how much he wanted the day (and evening) to go well. As a means to thank his people for all they have toiled… to give back… but to also lift their spirits for the rough months to come.

“It is,” Thorin concurs.

Bard turns to him with his lips twisted up, the skin around his eyes tight and Thorin is hit by the thought that months before he barely saw Bard smile and while he hasn’t suddenly become the cheeriest person around, he seems to be carrying himself lighter. He is glad.

“I saw you dancing with Tilda.”

“I enjoyed myself.”

“Good,” Bard says, still smiling and Thorin spends a few more moments taking it in before he glances away.

“It was not like this,” he suddenly says, “before Smaug.” He pauses but Bard doesn’t cut in. When Thorin turns to him, he is not mad at Thorin’s words, just waiting to hear the end, knows Thorin’s words are not meant as a slight. “It was… more formal. More political games.”

“Hmm. I probably would have been terrible.”

Thorin shrugs; that is a pointless thought exercise. If Bard had lived over a century ago, then it would not be this Bard.

“I prefer it now,” Thorin finds that he means it. Everywhere he looks he finds Dwarves mingling with Elves and Men, and he sees nothing but enjoyment in their postures. There is a drinking contest going on that is sure to embarrass the Dwarves and Men, but Thorin thinks no one will take it too to harm.

“I’m glad,” Bard says and his smile is smaller, but no less real.

Thorin doesn’t reply; there’s nothing else to say. He simply stands beside him, enjoying the companionship.

“I have a request,” Bard suddenly breaks the silence.

Thorin turns to him with a raised eyebrow.

“I would like to continue our dinners next year,” Bard says and he sounds confident, though Thorin wagers there is a hint of nervousness hidden somewhere. He does not blame him for it, even as sure as Bard must be that Thorin is agreeable to the request.

“One condition,” he says, using his kingly tone, but Bard seems to know nothing bad is coming.

“Name it.”

“You and the children come to Erebor more often.”

Bard smiles. “That can be arranged.”

Thorin smiles back, does not care if it does do something to his reputation. If the past year has taught him anything, it is that not all change is bad.