Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Part 4: Bloom

Chapter XVI

He could hear voices outside his door, gentle laughter pulling him from his sleep. He didn’t open his eyes immediately, instead simply breathing in and listening to all the sounds of life. There were birds outside, and the gentle hum of the city beyond. Somewhere, someone was playing a set of pipes and the thin reedy notes were just audible.

It had been a week since he’d first woken in this room in his sister’s establishment, her and Gandalf peering down at him in concern. Two weeks since Sauron had been defeated and the Sons free. Many times he’d dreamt of it but he’d never imagined spending his first two weeks of freedom either unconscious or completely bed-bound.

There was a knock at the door and he opened his eyes slowly, breathing in the lightly spiced smell of the air here. He called for whoever it was to enter and began to push himself upright to receive them.

Dís bustled in, a tray of food in her hands.

“Morning,” she grinned at him and Thorin made a noise in reply. She shut the door behind her and moved over to the bed, placing the tray on the side table and helping him up, adjusting the pillows at his back. She placed the tray on his lap and pulled up a chair, taking one of the two mugs of tea on the tray. “You look better this morning.”

“If by better you mean not feeling like I’ve been hit with a tonne of bricks repeatedly, then yes, I feel it,” he said drily, beginning to butter the toast she’d brought him. Dís only rolled her eyes and took a sip of her tea, watching him closely.

“He’s asked to see you again this morning,” she said quietly. Thorin paused and then continued scraping the butter onto his toast, though a little more vigorously than before.

“Tell him I’m sleeping.”

“How can you be so cruel to him, Thorin?” Dís asked, indignant. Thorin didn’t answer, didn’t look up from his plate. He spread jam over the butter, more than he wanted but he couldn’t bring himself to stop and meet his sister’s gaze. “He stayed by your side every moment you slept, waiting for you to wake up, and now you refuse to even see him?”

“What do you want me to say, Dís?” he asked sharply, setting his knife down with a clatter. “What can I say that will make it acceptable to you?”

“You can admit the truth,” she replied. “Admit to yourself why you won’t see him.”

Thorin tipped his head back, letting his eyes close as he took a breath. “I don’t need to admit it to myself, Dís. I know why I can’t see him. I betrayed him up there in the tower, I nearly killed him. I cannot bear to see him, knowing what I did.”

“If you just spoke to him–”

“No,” Thorin said. “Don’t make me, Dís, please.”

She let out an angry noise as she stood, setting her cup down roughly. “Fine,” she snapped. “But you’d better get your act together soon, Thorin, because I won’t lie to him forever. Next time he asks I won’t pretend you’re sleeping.” And she turned on her heel and left the room. Thorin stared at his plate of toast and felt incredibly small.

He couldn’t face seeing Bilbo again. He’d been there when he’d first woken woke up, his face tired and drawn but beaming as he’d noticed Thorin stirring before he’d run to fetch Dís and Gandalf; Thorin had been unable to look him in the eye when he’d returned, hiding his face. Bilbo had asked to see him every day since then and every day Thorin had told Dís to tell him he was asleep, or too weak to see him that day, or other such excuses. Because Thorin was a coward and Bilbo was a reminder of his weakness. How had Bilbo forgiven him for what he’d done to him?

So he hid in his chamber like the coward he was, putting off the moment he’d eventually have to see him. Bilbo was no fool and he must have realised Thorin was avoiding him – he allowed Gandalf in, and the other Sons had come to check on him since he’d woken. And still Bilbo didn’t give up, every day trying again. His wonderful Bilbo, waiting outside his chamber–

Thorin didn’t deserve him. He didn’t deserve someone as loyal and good as Bilbo, and yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to release him. If he saw him, he’d have to let him go, and Thorin couldn’t bear to do that just yet.  

In his meetings with Gandalf the kindly old man would sit and chat with him about what had happened – Gandalf had found Bilbo curled around him on the riverbank, snow grey with the ash of the burning tower settling around them and Thorin only hanging onto life by a thread; about what was happening in the city now – he was in the process of creating a new form of governance, fairer for all and not a Templar in sight. He told him how the others were doing, he recounted how he’d found Galadriel in her exile in Beleriand and how they and Elrond had managed to get into the Tower. He told him all this and never once did he mention Bilbo’s name, which Thorin was grateful for. He didn’t need to be reminded; Bilbo weighed heavy in his heart at all times. He couldn’t not think about him when every beat of his heart reminded him of his guilt.

He finished his toast and shifted the tray from his lap to the side table, wincing a little as his side pinched at the movement. He lay back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling as the winter sunshine filtered in through the pink drapes and the fire crackled in the grate.

A week later he was on his feet again – but he still hadn’t had the courage to face Bilbo. He knew he was treating him badly but Thorin had already betrayed him – what did it matter if Bilbo hated him more than he must already?

He was still weak and tired easily, but when it wasn’t too cold he would sometimes stroll around the gardens of the Sapphire, bundled up in fur-lined cloaks that weren’t his Son’s robes. He’d lost them along with his hidden blade when he’d been taken by Sauron’s men, as well as his sword and throwing knives.

He didn’t know why he’d gone – part of him had known that it would almost certainly end in his death. Sauron had come for blood and blood was what he would get – but Thorin had hoped if he got Thorin’s, he’d consider vengeance done and leave the others alone. Thorin wasn’t sure if that would have been the case after all, but thankfully he didn’t ever have to find out. The others were safe and Sauron and Smaug were both gone. Just for now, there were no more blots on the horizon, no more Templars wanting their heads; Thorin thought he’d be forgiven for letting himself breathe a little easier for the moment.

Fíli and Kíli had coaxed him out from his chamber into the garden, a thick layer of snow lining the walkways, gilding the shrubbery. His breath formed a fog in the air before him and he couldn’t help the childish amusement that stirred in him at the sound of the snow crunching under his boots, the trails of mist as he breathed sharply through his nostrils.

“Uncle’s the dragon!” Kíli laughed and darted away, Fíli giving a heavy sigh even as she grinned. Thorin rolled his eyes at her.

“Don’t tell me you’re too old to play Dragons and Burglars,” he said, giving a mock frown and she laughed.

“Of course not,” she said and then the next thing he knew cold wet snow was scattered in his face and she was skipping away, screeching as he gave chase. He was out of breath too fast and it made his side ache a little, but the feeling of being outside – in the open air – and unafraid of who might see them meant the discomfort was minimal, paling in significance next to the feel of cold air in his lungs, fresh snow falling in his hair and catching on his eyelashes, the sound of his niece and nephew’s breathless laughter. This was all he’d ever wanted, to be free.

He laughed as he and Fíli managed to tackle Kíli to the ground, the snow cushioning their landing and spraying up into their faces.

“No!” Kíli was shouting, his cry devolving into laughter as Thorin tickled him and he tried to wriggle away, his cheeks pink with exertion. “Bilbo, save me!” Thorin froze, suddenly chilled. He immediately let go of Kíli and got to his feet, his cold hands numb. He looked around and saw Bilbo standing a few feet away, not meeting his eye. Kíli scrambled up, shaking the snow from his hair and completely oblivious to Thorin’s discomfort. “We were playing Dragons and Burglars,” he told Bilbo. “Do you want to join us?”

“Ah, no thank you, Kíli,” he said, his cheeks pink – and just the sound of his voice was enough to make Thorin’s heart pound. He stared at the ground, unable to look up and only just resisting the urge to shuffle his feet. “Don’t let me interrupt your game.”

“It’s okay,” Fíli said brightly. “Mother’s calling us anyway. Come on, Kee,” she said, grabbing her brother’s hand and before Thorin could say anything they were running inside. Thorin was fairly certain he hadn’t heard Dís at all; she was hard to miss, after all. He still couldn’t bring himself to look at Bilbo; if he did he’d lose all his remaining composure.

“You’re looking well,” Bilbo said hesitantly and Thorin nodded, still studying his boots. He didn’t say anything, too afraid his voice would break if he did. “I tried to come and see you, I don’t know if Dís told you,” he carried on; his tone was mild but Thorin’s face flamed.

“Yes, I was busy,” he said thickly. “Sleeping. Healing.” He patted his side as if that explained everything, glancing up at Bilbo. He was looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face, and when he caught Thorin’s eye he held it, not letting him look away. He took a step closer and Thorin’s breath quickened, escaping him in puffs of smoke in the wind. Longing was coursing through him, longing just to be near him again, to breathe him in, to feel those hands on his or cupping his face or carding through his hair.

But he had no right to long for such things. He’d proven himself unworthy of Bilbo Baggins and letting himself want would only make it harder.

“I’m glad you’re well,” Bilbo said, a small smile curving his mouth. Thorin wanted to kiss him, to hold him close and apologise for everything he’d done to him; but he didn’t.

“Bilbo,” he said, taking a breath. He had to do this; Bilbo deserved better than him, he deserved to go home and find someone worthy.

But before he could say anything Bilbo spoke first.

“I’m going back to the Shire,” he said in a rush and Thorin looked up, his words forgotten. Bilbo bit his lip and looked away, his hand coming up to rest against the tree trunk, tracing over the bark. “I’m going back for good.”

Thorin felt as if the breath had been stolen from his body. Despite the fact that was what he’d been about to tell Bilbo to do, it hurt. Bilbo looked at him, his eyes apologetic but chin set.

“I miss home and... and I’m not needed here anymore.”

Thorin felt his heart twist painfully.

“You’re needed,” he said, his voice nearly catching and he swallowed thickly. I need you.

Bilbo looked at him sadly. “No, I’m not,” he said softly. He drew his hand back into his pocket and Thorin could feel his heartbeat thudding irregularly, painfully, in his chest. He had to let him go, despite whatever he wanted. He couldn’t keep Bilbo here when he knew Bilbo wanted to be at home; he couldn’t keep him here when he couldn’t bring himself to be near him. And yet in that moment a thousand excuses were running across Thorin’s mind, reasons Bilbo had to stay, a hundred thousand reasons why he needed him there. Thorin swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“Then if your mind is made up…”

“It is,” Bilbo said firmly, though his eyes were looking searchingly into Thorin’s, as if he was seeking the answer to some question there. “I leave tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. So soon.

“Then I’m not one to stop you,” he said, giving a small smile. It felt like a knife through the heart to give it but Bilbo returned it, just a small curve of his lips but it was enough.

“Thorin…” Bilbo said, taking a step forward. Thorin forced himself not to move, not to reach out for him and pull him close like he so longed to do. Bilbo was so close to him now, a mere arm’s length away; he extended his arm out as if reaching for Thorin and then changed his mind, simply holding his hand out in the cold air. Thorin took it, his heart hammering at the feel of Bilbo’s warm hand in his own as Bilbo squeezed his hand, just a little, before letting go. “Thank you,” he said softly, his gaze not leaving Thorin’s, “for everything.”

And then he turned and was walking away, the snow crunching under his feet as Thorin watched his retreating back.

As soon as he was out of sight he hurried to his own room, unable to keep his breathing even when it felt as if his heart was breaking. It was a hundred times worse than before – Bilbo was choosing to go, Bilbo was choosing to leave him, and though Thorin knew he must it didn’t make it hurt any less. He clutched at his chest, at his side; it felt as if his whole body was falling apart.

Bilbo left the next day and Thorin didn’t join the others gathered at the gate to see him off – he watched from his window like the coward he was. He watched as Bilbo clambered into his saddle and turn to go. Beside him Gandalf nudged his pony into a trot; Bilbo looked back at the Sapphire, something unreadable on his face, and Thorin quickly stepped away from the window, his broken heart hammering painfully. Bilbo shook his head and followed Gandalf, his pony bearing him home, away from Thorin. He watched him go until he couldn’t see him anymore; it hurt to know that it was the last time he’d see him, to know that Bilbo wasn’t his. Perhaps that Bilbo didn’t love him anymore. For a long while after Bilbo had disappeared into the distance Thorin sat in his chamber and tried to work out how he was supposed to go on living when the man he loved had left and taken his heart with him.

***

Gandalf kept him company on the ride to Shire, which Bilbo was grateful for. His heart was heavy, despite the fact he was going home, and each step of his little pony weighed a tonne. He didn’t have much, just a spare set of robes in a satchel slung over his shoulder and his weapons all in their proper places. Balin had tried to get him to accept money, or at least a promise of money to come, but Bilbo refused. It was enough for him to know that the Sons were safe and free. He had no use for money.

He’d taken his leave of them that morning, already doubt creeping into his mind. Should he have stayed a little longer? Would they be alright if he left now? But he strengthened his resolve and said his goodbyes and left, Gandalf at his side. It was a far nicer journey than most he’d made – having company and not being a hunted man helped, he supposed.

Gandalf kept him distracted with conversation and Bilbo even found himself laughing despite the heaviness of his heart – but then, that was just part of the Wizard’s power. Sometimes it was just impossible to feel sad around him, and for that Bilbo was grateful. It stopped him thinking about why reluctance made his feet drag, why he felt as if something was missing.

His heart lifted when he saw his home again, the grass blanketed with thick white snow, powdery to the touch, and the chimneys puffing out little plumes of smoke. He approached Bag End almost nervously – they thought him dead, what would they think when they saw him? – and clambered down from his pony, staring at the green door he’d dreamt of so many times. He took a deep breath and walked up the snowy path, and knocked. He felt odd knocking on his own front door.

It opened onto Lobelia, flour in her curls and wiping her hands on her an apron; she seemed to freeze when she saw him, her mouth falling open uncomprehendingly. Gandalf’s hand came up to rest on Bilbo’s shoulder in silent support.

“Hullo, Lobelia,” he said, his voice cracking a little. Her face crumpled and she threw her arms around him, holding him so tightly he couldn’t breathe.

“Oh, Yavanna, it’s really you,” she was saying, “it’s really really you, Bilbo, oh Valar–” She stepped back and released him, wiping her eyes and giving him a watery smile. “I can’t believe you’re back – Frodo’s been saying so all along but I never truly thought–” She laughed then, hugging him again and Bilbo held her close, letting the feeling of home warm his heart.

“Back for good,” he said as she let go and he brushed some of the flour out of her curls. She laughed and pulled him inside, urging Gandalf in too. They made their way to the kitchen, Lobelia calling Frodo excitedly. The lad peered around the corner curiously and fairly flew at Bilbo when he recognised his uncle, chattering happily and excitedly as Bilbo held him tightly. Bilbo’s heart felt as if it might burst as he set Frodo down and accepted the tea Lobelia made, shrugging off his satchel and telling them everything.

The sun had set by the time he finished, cloaking the world in darkness early. He didn’t talk about Thorin – about his nightmares, his descent into the darkness his mind haunted him with; he told them only that Thorin had gone and nearly died, and left it at that. He sensed they weren’t satisfied with that but they accepted it for now.

Being back was everything he’d hoped it would be during the long cold nights when he’d missed it with a physical ache. He put Frodo to bed, laughing at the lad’s exuberance as he bounced up on down on the balls of his feet as they walked down the hallway to his bedroom.

“I always knew you’d be back,” Frodo said and Bilbo smiled.

“Did you now?” he asked. “And how’s that?”

“You promised,” Frodo said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. Bilbo pulled the covers back and Frodo climbed into bed, Bilbo tucking him in and sitting beside him on the bed. He smiled as Frodo peered up at him.

“It’s good to be back,” he said, smiling.

“Will you read to me?”

“Of course, my boy. Which one?” Bilbo didn’t even need to ask, his hands finding the old leather tome even before Frodo could say its name.

“Gwaihir and Roäc!” he said and Bilbo settled down to read, watching the boy’s eyelids droop as sleep claimed him. He pressed a kiss to Frodo’s forehead and the boy yawned.

“I’m not going to leave again,” Bilbo said. “I promise.”

Frodo yawned, only just awake.

“Won’t you miss Thorin?” he murmured, his words almost unintelligible they were so clouded with tiredness.

Bilbo felt a lump in his throat form and he couldn’t swallow it down. “No,” he whispered thickly. “I’ll be fine.” He turned down the lamp by Frodo’s bedside and headed for the door. He paused and looked back at Frodo’s now sleeping form and smiled. “Goodnight, lad,” he whispered and turned and left, shutting the door softly behind him.

He sat a while longer with Lobelia and eventually headed to his own bed. He shut the door and stood in the doorway, feeling slightly lost. He couldn’t stop the thought that once upon a time, Thorin had been here with him, had shared his bed - he looked away from the offending item, his cheeks flaming. He walked around his room as if in a trance, his hands trailing across the papered walls, the oak wardrobe, his mother’s old vanity. He looked at his reflection in the mirror; he was older, more tired than when he’d left. He turned away; funny to think that after longing for home for so long, he’d now give almost anything to be in a stone tunnel laughing at something Bofur said while Thorin’s hands rested gently but promisingly on his waist.

There was something folded on the chair in the corner; he strode across the room and picked it up. It was Thorin’s shirt of Durin blue that had become bloodied during his escape from the Erebor tunnels all those months ago; Lobelia must have washed it and left it here for him to give to Thorin.

Sudden longing coursed through him as he held the worn blue shirt and he missed Thorin so much it felt like his whole body was on fire, like he was being stabbed over and over and it was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. He sat down heavily in the chair, staring at the innocent garment in his hands.

Why had Thorin not asked him to stay? Why had he let him go, without even protesting? Why hadn’t he seen him even once?

Frustrated tears started to squeeze out from his eyes no matter how much he tried to stop them and he threw the shirt across the room; it landed somewhere on the other side of the bed, hidden from view.

A week, he’d stayed by Thorin’s side, not leaving even for meals or sleep; two weeks, he’d knocked every day and tried to see him only to be refused. At first Bilbo had believed that he really was sleeping or too weak to receive visitors, but he’d soon realised Thorin was purposefully avoiding him. And every day he’d kept asking, hoping this would be the day that Thorin stopped being stubborn and relented. But he hadn’t, and then it was clear: Thorin simply didn’t want to see him. Bilbo couldn’t bear to stay a moment longer somewhere he wasn’t wanted.

He couldn’t have borne it, staying so near to Thorin and yet so far. What use was it knowing he was only a few thin walls away when that distance was as insurmountable as if it had been from Arda to the Evenstar Isles? If Thorin didn’t love him anymore, he couldn’t stay. Not when he still loved Thorin with every breath, with every heartbeat. There alone in his room, he felt very small and very alone and he took a few shaking breaths, trying to stop the tears that stung his eyes.

They’d never spoken of what might happen when it was all over. Bilbo had known he’d come home, back to the Shire, but there’d been a part of him which had secretly thought that perhaps Thorin would come with him – at least for a little while – or that Thorin would ask him to stay with him in Arda. He tried not to feel bitter at how it had all worked out: Thorin was a free man. Thorin was safe. The children, Dís, the rest of them – they could now live without fearing for their lives. That was what they’d set out to achieve and they’d succeeded; Bilbo couldn’t ruin that for them.

And if Thorin had decided he was better off without Bilbo, perhaps he was right.

Angrily Bilbo pushed himself up from the chair and changed for bed, thinking only of how nice his night clothes felt, of how soft his mattress was after the months of hard functional ones. It didn’t really stop the ache in his heart, but he could pretend it did, and Bilbo was really rather good at pretending, after all.

Just not to himself.

*

Time passed and Bilbo grew used to being at home again, to having little Frodo around. The lad had often stayed for weekends at a time but never much longer, and Bilbo stepped up to the job admirably. After all, he’d been absent for a long while, and he owed it to Frodo to make up for that.

At first being surrounded by his family and friends was enough to dull the sharp ache in his heart and Bilbo could forget all about Thorin for stretches of time, distracted by playing with Frodo in the snow and taking long walks, pointing out the winter plants and herbs. He salvaged Prim’s old herbalism compendium and he and Frodo spent hours poring over the pages, Frodo memorising each detail of the fine illustrations.

But as the winter snow began to thaw and spring approached it was harder to ignore the almost permanent ache of longing. It left him breathless at night and he could hardly move for it sometimes. He could no longer forget Thorin, the Son stealing his way into Bilbo’s dreams, his waking thoughts; sometimes Bilbo imagined he could feel his breath ghosting against his ear, or that he could hear Thorin’s low voice from another room and he’d turn, his stomach flipping with joy, until he realised he’d imagined it. The disappointment was crushing and stole his breath from his lungs.

Gandalf had gone back to Arda but would occasionally turn up at Bag End, asking for Bilbo’s input or advice. Along with Galadriel and Elrond, Gandalf was setting up the new council to rule over the city. He wanted representatives from each district, so that the entire city could be represented fairly and not just the rich.

“Come with me to the next meeting,” Gandalf urged him. “It’s about time the Children got into politics – maybe you could turn your hand to governing life, as well as nurturing and taking it.” His blue eyes twinkled under his bushy eyebrows and Bilbo smiled and agreed to join him. Not because he was interested in politics, but he wanted to see his friends. Bard, Beorn, Thranduil… he hadn’t seen them in a long while.

And so he found himself in Arda, accompanying Gandalf through the streets. Since Gandalf had rather conveniently blown up the Lonely Tower, it had been razed to the ground. It was strange not seeing it up there in the Citadel, watching over the city.

They made their way to the market hall in Rivendell, filled with people all having their say in the running of the city. It was humble and down-to-earth – hardly the fancy elite the Council had been before. Bilbo was surprised and commented on it to Gandalf.

“Everything’s changing, Bilbo my boy,” he said clapping Bilbo on the back. “We’d best not get left behind.”

Bilbo made a noise of agreement and followed Gandalf towards the long table where the meeting would take place. He was about to sit down when he heard someone calling his name and he started, looking around curiously.

“Bilbo! Bilbo!” he turned to find Ori hurrying up to him, a beam splitting his face and parchment clutched to his chest. He no longer wore his Sons’ robes, and instead was in a smart jacket and breeches. Bilbo couldn’t help but smile as he saw Ori approaching, still looking harried and bedraggled even in his new clothes.

“Ori,” he grinned, pulling the younger Son in for a hug before holding him at arm’s length, studying him carefully. There was a new braid in his hair; Ori noticed his gaze fall on it and his smile grew wider as he touched a hand to it almost shyly.

“Dwalin and I are courting,” he admitted and Bilbo was truly happy for him. He ignored the longing for Thorin that woke in him then, coiling itself through his body. Ori waved someone over and then Balin was there, pressing his forehead to Bilbo’s and asking how he was. It was almost like Bilbo had never left, despite the time that had passed. They told him their news – Bofur had reopened his toy shop in Erebor with Bifur, Óin and Glóin were making money and Dori had taken up his tailoring again; Bilbo told them about Frodo and life in the Shire. It all sounded dreadfully dull compared to what the Sons were up to.

“How’s...How’s Thorin?” he asked hesitantly then, ignoring the way his heart beat faster. “And Dís and the children, of course, how are they getting on?”

Balin smiled. “They’re doing just fine, Bilbo. Freedom suits them well, as it does us all. And Thorin’s alright too.”

“Alright?” he frowned.

“He’s at a loss as to what to do now the Sons aren’t really Assassins,” Balin said. “Dís has the Sapphire, we have our writing, the others have their businesses...All Thorin ever lived for was freedom, and now he has it he doesn’t know what to do with himself.”

“Oh.”

“And he still blames himself over the Arkenstone,” Ori said quietly. “He told me what happened up in the Tower.”

Bilbo swallowed and looked away for a moment. “The only person who hasn’t forgiven him is himself,” he said quietly.

“Then why have you never come back to see us?” Ori demanded, suddenly fierce. Bilbo looked at him, startled at the sudden vehemence of his tone. “We all thought that was why you left – that you hadn’t forgiven him or that he’d hurt you too badly. Why did you go?”

“I – I left because I wasn’t wanted,” Bilbo said, a pained expression on his face. “Thorin refused to see me and I decided I needed to get home. Frodo needed me more than any of you.”

“It’s not true,” Ori said, shaking his head, but after a sharp glance from Balin he shook his head and strode away, his gloved hands worrying at a quill. Bilbo watched him go, ignoring the tightness in his throat.

“Come and see us soon,” was all Balin said, squeezing Bilbo’s arm gently, and then he too was off, guiding Ori to the other side of the room ready to transcribe the meeting. Bilbo sat numbly through it, not really paying attention, and even when he was back in the Shire he couldn’t place why he felt so uneasy.

Seeing Ori and Balin had just reminded him how much he missed the Sons and of course how much he missed Thorin – though he couldn’t ever truly forget that. Lobelia became frustrated with him, losing her patience with his pacing and his long silences.

“It’s been two months,” she told him crossly as he stared out of the parlour window, gazing out at the Shire coming back to life. The trees were starting to bud again, shoots breaking up through the still-frozen earth. “Just go to him, Bilbo. He’s probably hurting as much as you are. Yavanna’s sake, you have to stop this moping or you’ll drive yourself mad.”

He flinched. “I can’t, Lobelia. You don’t understand. He doesn’t want me there – he didn’t even try to stop me.” He could feel his breath coming short and he forced himself to breathe slowly, turning back to the window. “It doesn’t matter what I want, if he’s made his choice.”

“Bilbo,” she said softly. “At least talk to him.”

Bilbo shook his head and left the room. She didn’t understand – couldn’t ever understand. Bilbo couldn’t see Thorin again; seeing him would only make it harder. It was hard enough already; if he saw him again, his want and love would only come crashing down even stronger and Bilbo couldn’t face that.

So he carried on ignoring his own feelings and buried them as deeply as he could, distracting himself with his walks with Frodo and visiting his relatives and all the other pointless, boring things that were his life now there was no one to hide from or fight.

He couldn’t stop himself thinking of Thorin, but he was determined not to let it get him down. Yes, he loved Thorin and he was sure he always would; but Thorin had made his choice and so Bilbo had to make his: let himself fade away, bitter and resentful, or let the past be the past and remember it for what it was? He deserved more than to let Thorin make him no more than a side-note, discarded and forgotten about. He owed it to himself.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he knew he was right. It was easier after this: there were still moments of crushing despair and longing but for the most part Bilbo succeeded. He even found it in him to visit Bofur’s toy shop, buying a couple of figurines for Frodo that thanks to Bifur’s clever fingers could actually move: he gazed at the woodsman in his hand in wonder, his axe swinging up and down, up and down, like clockwork. He couldn’t bring himself to go to the Sapphire.

Like clockwork: like a well-oiled machine, smooth but repetitive. Those were Bilbo’s days now. It was only at the quiet of night when he was alone, sitting with a cup of tea staring out at the night sky, that he let himself think on what had been before. It was only then that he let himself be anything other than in control.

He just hoped that it was worth it; that whatever Thorin was doing, he was happy.

***

He hadn’t thought letting go would hurt so much. Every time he tried to forget Bilbo, to convince himself he was doing the right thing, it felt like he was cutting off a limb and he caved, clinging selfishly onto his love for him. And yet every time he told himself to go back and get him, to beg for his forgiveness, his courage failed him. It was a torment harder to bear than he’d ever thought possible; what surprised Thorin was how he still functioned, despite the ever-present ache in his chest and longing in his body.

Dís yelled at him, pleaded with him, scolded him; but nothing she said could force him to action. He was too cowardly – too craven to let Bilbo go, too craven to get him back.

“Mahal’s sake, Thorin, he’s as stubborn as you,” she cried, finding him sitting alone in the gardens of the Sapphire again. “Just go to him and see what he says!”

“I can’t,” he said numbly. Couldn’t she understand that?

“I swear to the Maker, Thorin,” she muttered. “You don’t even like plants and yet you sit out here day after day, and I know you’re thinking about him.” His cheeks coloured at that; he did find the gardens soothing – with the sound of the leaves in the wind and the smell of the earth he could almost pretend he was in the Shire, and that Bilbo would come out at any moment and sit next to him as if nothing had changed at all. Except it had, and it was his fault. “Brother or not, if you don’t stop moping I’m kicking you out,” she muttered.

He scowled at her. “You wouldn’t.”

She gave him a smile that was slightly too wide to be reassuring. “When you’re done moping, go watch Fíli do the budgets. You’re useless at them.”

Thorin didn’t reply to that. The others had all moved on with their lives and Thorin had become his sister’s handyman, doing whatever she required to help with the running of the Sapphire. He didn’t begrudge her that, but he did resent his own inability to move on. Especially when Dwalin and Ori had started officially courting and Dwalin had almost been too embarrassed to tell him.

“I let him leave,” Thorin told him, his friend looking almost comically uncomfortable. “He is an ally to us, he saved us, and yes I loved him. But what I feel or felt is not important. He has his own life now.” He wished he could sound so certain when he told himself this night after night.

Spring came quickly, perhaps welcoming the new Arda that was blooming under the new council. The whole world seemed to be coming back to life, this time better than before; it seemed it was only Thorin who was stagnating, not really living despite his new-found freedom to do so.

One particularly sunny spring day Dís sent him out of the Sapphire to go and meet Balin after his meeting. Reluctantly Thorin did as he was bid, and he headed to Balin’s new office in Dale, where he was part of a committee for something or other. Thorin had been listening, but politics went straight over his head. He was reluctant to go inside on a day like this so he waited in the small square outside. A tree offered shade and Thorin studied the flowers that had been planted around the base. Bilbo would know all their names.

He paced as he waited, ignoring the trickles of humanity that passed by his little square. He scuffed the grass with his boots, wondering what was taking Balin so long.

He wasn’t sure how long he waited for but eventually he grew too bored and decided to head inside; he strode towards the door and just as he was about to pull it open it swung out, narrowly missing hitting him in the face, and someone hurried out before walking straight into him.

“So sorry!” they cried and Thorin froze at the sound of Bilbo’s voice, frowning as he regarded him and yes, that was Bilbo, standing right in front of him! Bilbo had frozen too, looking at Thorin nervously. “Oh,” he said, his face falling and Thorin tried not to let his disappointment show. “Hullo.”

“Hello,” Thorin said, swallowing thickly and hoping his voice wouldn’t give him away. He hadn’t seen Bilbo in months and suddenly he was here, just a few small steps away, and Thorin could feel his chest tightening as he took in the sight him – his curls were neatly brushed and shorter than when they’d parted, his cheeks were fuller. He was perfect, and Thorin felt a moment of utter despair before he pulled himself together. “You’re here to see Balin?”

“Oh, yes,” Bilbo said, nodding and looking away as he brushed down his robes. He still wore his Children’s robes, his scarlet belt and herb pouch ever present. “Yes, sometimes I come and visit Balin and Ori.”

“Oh,” Thorin said. They hadn’t mentioned his visits. Why had Bilbo never come and visit him? Bilbo said nothing to this and they stood in silence for a few long uncomfortable moments. There was so much Thorin wanted to say – he’d been a fool, an utter fool, and please would Bilbo forgive him–

“You, ah, you look well,” he settled for saying. Bilbo gave a quick smile, just a curve of his mouth, and Thorin’s heart quickened at the sight. “Being at home suits you.”

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed. “Yes, the Shire is good after so long away.”

Thorin nodded, his whole body aching to close the gap between them, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “How’s Frodo?” he asked hesitantly. Every second of this shambles of a conversation hurt him more but every second was another second he was talking to Bilbo, looking at him, in his presence, and he couldn’t let that go despite the indescribable, exquisite pain.

Bilbo gave a proper smile then, his whole face lighting up. “He’s doing just fine,” he said. He was picking at the sleeve of his robes, an unconscious gesture Thorin had seen him do on countless occasions before while sitting in the common room in Erebor and he couldn’t breathe for longing. “And Fíli and Kíli? How are they?”

“Good,” Thorin replied, nodding. “Really good. They miss you.” I miss you.

Bilbo’s face fell for a moment and he looked away. “I’m sorry I haven’t been to visit yet. Tell them – tell them I’ll be over some time soon.” He couldn’t meet Thorin’s eye. They both knew he was lying.

“Of course,” Thorin replied easily, feeling like his heart might stop. Mahal, this hurt more than he’d ever thought possible.

“Well then,” Bilbo said, looking up again and rocking on his heels. “I’d best go.”

“Yes,” Thorin replied, nodding again – he felt like one of Bofur’s mechanical toys, his head bobbing up and down again and again as if it were the only thing he could do. His whole body was crying out at him to stop Bilbo from going, to keep him here – how could he let him go? He could hear his sister’s voice in his head – talk to him – but he had talked to him and all it had done was remind him how much he loved Bilbo Baggins, and show him that Bilbo didn’t love him. Bilbo wanted to get as far away from him as possible, and Thorin couldn’t blame him – no matter how much it broke his heart. He wondered if he’d found someone else in the Shire.

“Goodbye, then,” Bilbo said.

Thorin swallowed against the lump in his throat. “Goodbye.”

Bilbo nodded once more and then stepped past Thorin, who let him pass; he couldn’t bring himself to move, whether it be to turn and watch him walk away or head forwards into Balin’s office. His whole body was frozen, screaming at him to do something–

He whirled around. “Wait,” he said desperately, the word forcing itself out of his mouth. He saw Bilbo flinch and immediately he hated himself, but Bilbo still turned, his shoulders raised defensively. Thorin felt a bitter taste in his mouth – was he afraid of him? When he’d raised his hand to him up there in the tower, had that killed Bilbo’s trust in him?

“Yes?” Bilbo asked. Thorin hunched in on himself.

“I... it was good to see you,” Thorin said lamely, his courage failing him. Bilbo’s eyes tightened and he simply nodded.

“Oh.” He paused. “You too.” He didn’t turn around immediately; he looked hesitant, as if he wanted to say something, or was waiting for Thorin to say it.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin said then. Bilbo’s eyes were fixed on him and Thorin couldn’t look away, his entire being focussed on Bilbo and trying to make him understand – that he was sorry, but that that wasn’t what he was trying to say – that there was so much more he needed to say – “I’m sorry I never saw you, at the Sapphire, after...everything.”

Bilbo swallowed. “It’s forgiven,” he said gently, his voice sincere.

Thorin frowned. “No, I was wrong to do that. I’m sorry.”

Bilbo gave the ghost of a smile. “You don’t have to feel guilty, Thorin. For anything.” And he turned again but Thorin couldn’t bear it – he couldn’t let him go – not without knowing for sure that Bilbo didn’t love him anymore. He darted forwards, his hand catching at Bilbo’s elbow and Bilbo span around, eyes wide.

“I miss you,” Thorin said, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. Now the words were out and there was no taking them back. “I’ve missed you every day since you left and I cannot let you go again without being certain – without knowing it’s truly what you want.” He let his hand drop from Bilbo’s arm and he looked down, unable to look at Bilbo’s face which was suddenly full of anguish.

“Then why did you let me go?” he asked quietly, and there was such pain in his voice it froze Thorin to his core. “All you had to do was ask me to stay and I would have, I’d have given it all up in a heartbeat for you, Thorin–” He turned from him, gulping in great breaths and Thorin stood frozen, trying to comprehend Bilbo’s words. “I still would,” Bilbo whispered miserably.

“But – I thought you wanted to go,” Thorin said. The world felt unsteady, as if it were shifting under his feet. “I thought you’d made up your mind and that nothing I could say could stop you – If I’d known–”

“I thought you didn’t want me around anymore,” Bilbo said, suddenly angry. “You refused to see me and I had to go, I couldn’t bear to stay because you didn’t want me there anymore–”

“I was scared of seeing you again,” Thorin said, his heart thudding so painfully he couldn’t breathe. “I thought I’d destroyed whatever we might have had–”

Bilbo turned then and there was fury in his eyes. “You are such a fool, Thorin Oakenshield!” he cried, jabbing Thorin in the chest. “A massive, stupid, stubborn fool! I stayed by your side all while you slept and you thought – you thought I’d suddenly stopped loving you? Was that not proof enough that I love you with every fibre of my being and that not a day goes by where I cannot stop thinking about you? You thought that what happened would suddenly change all of that?” He was shouting now and Thorin let him, blood rushing loudly in his ears. “You are so stupid, Thorin,” he said, breathing hard, and turned again, hiding his face. His breathing was sharp and they stood there for a long moment, neither saying anything, until Bilbo broke the silence. “I’m going to go now. I’ve made enough of a fool of myself,” he said, his voice stiff and face still turned away. Thorin caught his hand and Bilbo’s breath hitched. “Please don’t,” he whispered. “I can’t bear it.”

“You call me a fool and yet you thought I’d stopped loving you, because I didn’t see you?” Thorin asked, near to tears himself. “Yes, I’m a fool, Bilbo Baggins, but I can’t help myself because I don’t think I can bear to watch you walk away again, not this time,” he said, his voice breaking. He closed his eyes. “Please, don’t make me watch you leave again.”

Bilbo made no reply and Thorin might have thought he’d walked away if his hand hadn’t still been clutching at Bilbo’s. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Just as Thorin was about to let his hand fall, he felt warmth on his cheek and he leaned into it; Bilbo’s other hand came up to brush away the strands of hair falling into his face, smoothing away the frown on his forehead as he’d done so many times before. Thorin didn’t dare open his eyes, just in case this was a dream or some cruel joke.

“Alright,” Bilbo breathed, his breath ghosting over Thorin’s lips. “Alright.”

***

Summer was definitely on its way, Bilbo decided; it may only be April but already the sun was beating down on his back, sweat beading on his forehead as he worked. He was elbow deep in freshly turned earth, planting bulbs and carefully patting the earth back over them, ready for them to blossom. Come summer, his garden would once again be the envy of the Shire.

He stood then, admiring his handiwork and wiping a gloved hand across his face. He grimaced when he remembered it was muddy – not that it mattered, as he’d need to wash when he finished anyway. He was looking out at the rest of the garden thoughtfully when arms suddenly snaked around his middle and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Thorin,” he laughed, twisting in the other man’s arms. Thorin was smiling down at him, looking at him with such devotion it made Bilbo warm all over. “We weren’t expecting you for another couple of days!”

Thorin’s grin widened as he removed a hand from Bilbo’s waist – a shame, Bilbo thought – to rub the mud from Bilbo’s cheek with his thumb. “Balin managed to hurry everything up,” he said, “and Dís can be very reasonable when she wants to be.”

Bilbo wrapped his own arms around Thorin, resting his head on his chest and listening to his heartbeat. He was glad he wasn’t the only one whose heart was beating erratically: just being near Thorin even now still made him feel giddy. “I’m glad,” he said and Thorin hummed in agreement; Bilbo could feel it vibrate in his chest.

He pulled away reluctantly, keeping hold of Thorin’s hand as he led him inside to the kitchen, where he removed his muddied gloves and washed his face before turning back to Thorin. Thorin had been spending a few days a week in the Shire with Bilbo and Frodo ever since they’d reconciled – and to think it had taken them that long – but he’d had to go back to Arda to sort things out: namely the old Durin manor. Dís had suggested selling it, but Thorin wanted it gone – it was naught but a shell, after all; there were too many ghosts in there and it was better they were laid to rest for good than be allowed to linger – no amount of polishing and dusting could ever wipe clean the history of the blood spilt there.

“Where are Lobelia and Frodo?” Thorin asked.

“Out with Otho,” Bilbo said, pouring them both a glass of water. “I think he’s got his eye on her, and taking Frodo out for his herbalism lessons is his excuse to see her.” Thorin gave a chuckle and Bilbo couldn’t stop himself smiling at the sound.

“Herbalism,” Thorin said. “That’s what you people call it, is it?” His eyes crinkled at Bilbo’s indignant look.

“Thank you very much, but you chose this herbalist,” Bilbo said, mock-haughtily and crossing his arms. “So I’ll thank you not to insult my people, Master Oakenshield.”

Thorin paused for a moment, looking stunned, and then he laughed – a proper, full-bellied laugh. Bilbo couldn’t work out why he was laughing and he stood, waiting for an explanation.

“You said nearly the very same thing to me exactly a year ago,” Thorin said, by way of explanation, his hand coming up to tweak one of Bilbo’s curls. “Though I’ll admit the circumstances were a little different.”

“Today?” Bilbo asked. A year ago today he’d first met Thorin… It almost seemed impossible that the haughty, arrogant man he’d hated almost immediately and the man in front of him, grinning widely, could be the same person. He swallowed thickly. It was strange to think how much had changed. He leant forward to press a kiss to Thorin’s collarbone.

They heard voices approaching up the front garden path and reluctantly Thorin took a step away as the smial door opened and Frodo came running inside, followed by Lobelia and Otho at a more sedate pace.

“Uncle Bilbo, Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo was calling, but as soon as he entered the kitchen and saw Thorin he forgot what he was going to say and immediately ran to him with an enthusiastic cry of “Uncle Thorin!”

Bilbo didn’t have a moment with Thorin to himself for the rest of the day – not that he really minded, the smial ringing with voices making him feel content. It wasn’t until Frodo was in bed asleep that they could excuse themselves, leaving Lobelia and Otho in the living room, and as soon as the door shut behind them Thorin was peppering him with kisses, making Bilbo laugh.

“I missed you,” Thorin said, pausing with his face pressed against the crook of Bilbo’s neck.

“You were only gone a couple of days,” Bilbo said, his hands coming up to tuck Thorin’s hair behind his ears. Thorin had put his braids in again at Bilbo’s insistence – he was a free man, after all, and he’d done what he’d set out to do. He lay back against the pillows, Thorin lying next to him, their hands entwined as they looked at each other.

“I want to talk to you about that,” Thorin said quietly. Bilbo felt his heart jump to his throat. Thorin noticed his reaction and pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s knuckles. “I’ve spoken to Dís. Turns out I was a terrible doorman and she’s kicking me out. I’m homeless, Bilbo.” His eyes were smiling and Bilbo let out a breathy laugh, relief washing over him. Thorin kissed him then, leaving him breathless, and when they broke apart he didn’t pull away.

“Well what use have I got for a terrible doorman?” Bilbo teased, his free hand stroking Thorin’s cheek gently. Thorin reached up to catch it as he moved to whisper in Bilbo’s ear.

“I’m quite good at washing dishes,” he said, completely seriously, and Bilbo laughed before kissing him soundly.

“Welcome to the family,” he breathed.

FIN