Chapter Text
Bilbo had only ever fallen in love once. He liked to blame it on youth and ignorance, on hormones or neediness, but deep down he knew the truth. And the truth was that it had nothing to do with those things. His pain came from those things- the hurt he felt once he’d been betrayed and ditched like trash.
He’d said his name was Thorin, although Bilbo had hardly a clue if that was his real name, or a pseudonym he’d used while he was here. He’d travelled to The Shire to set up shop at the old Forge. Hobbits had smiths, of course, but none as talented as Dwarven smiths.
Bilbo had never seen anything like him before, and he’d fallen in love instantly.
He was smart and witty and completely oblivious to the open adoration everyone had for him. Or perhaps he was simply used to it, Bilbo did not know. His talent with a hammer was superseded only by his talent with his tongue. He was scathing and biting and sarcastic at all the right times, able to make someone laugh or cry or swoon with the slightest word.
Bilbo had been one of many, something he hadn’t realised at the time. He’d been young, barely even twenty-five, and quite foolish, as young people were. He’d imagined that perhaps Thorin had felt the same.
But it was not so. What he did was willing, of course, he’d never lie about that. He’d willingly let Thorin take him by the hand to the back rooms of the forge, he’d willingly unlaced his own breeches and slipped off his braces. He’d delighted in it all.
And then, as these things went, he’d caught sight of the same thing happening a week later. Some Hobbit lass, he never saw who she was. Just Thorin. At the sight of it, he’d just hightailed it out of there before he’d been caught.
Naturally, he’d been heartbroken. He’d cried on his mother’s shoulder while she cooed him, and then he’d cried at night into his pillow, trying to bite back sobs so his parents didn’t hear.
By the time he’d worked up enough courage to go back to the Forge, it had been packed up and abandoned. Apparently ‘Thorin’ had been visited late one night by some other Dwarves, only to leave along with them in what seemed to be a hurry.
Bilbo bit back his sadness. After all, the Dwarf was not deserving of it. Not in the least. But knowing something and believing it were two very different things. So he’d mourned. Silently. And tried to move on. It seemed that he was not in favour with the Maker, for whatever reason. Because not a year later, both his parents had died during the Fell Winter, and at the grand age of twenty-six, he’d become the Master of Bag-End.
The loneliness cut through him like an icy knife, draining him of all blood and leaving him in the snow, and he decided then and there that it was best he never loved anyone ever again, because it only resulted in pain.
Thorin’s father had been furious when he’d returned to Erebor. “You are Crown Prince,” he’d snarled in anger, disappointment and fury in his gaze, “and you will behave like a Crown Prince, is that understood?”
Thorin had just nodded mutely. Frerin had found it all very amusing.
“I don’t see why you feel the need to run off like that,” he’d said later that night, stretching out on Thorin’s bed like it was his own (a habit of his that Thorin loathed). “We have everything we need here.”
“Some of us like to be treated like actual people, Frerin.” Thorin had snarled, sounding much like his father.
Frerin had rolled his eyes. “Nonsense. You just like to be able to fuck whoever you want without consequence. So tell me brother,” his eyes glittered, “did you get what you wanted?”
Thorin gave him no reply. He had, in fact. Many times with many others. He supposed in a way it was a form of rebellion against the idea of him being saddled with and betrothed to some distance Price or Princess to one of the other kingdoms of the Dwarves. His father had been talking of such things before Thorin had run off, and he would no doubt mention them again.
It was his duty and his obligation as Prince to marry well, as he had come of age and had no One. He had looked, of course, and hoped that the strange emptiness in his stomach and chest had been because his mate had been waiting for him, but as time passed he realised that it wasn’t so. It was just… emptiness. The same emptiness all unmated Dwarrows felt. So sometimes he lost himself in the bodies of others, there was nothing wrong with that. Only the fact that he was a Prince, and was intended to save himself for when he was married.
Thorin had no such plans.
And they had all been wonderful, some more than others, but that was not the point. He ought to be free to do what he wished, but he could not, because of silly words like obligation and duty. The Hobbits of The Shire had been quite a welcome relief. They enjoyed the more pleasurable things in life. Song and food and dance and sex. It didn’t matter. So Thorin had enjoyed those things, too, upon his stay. He worked hard during the day, and during the night he ate and laughed and fucked until he was spent and collapsed on his bed.
If he was honest, he had only come back willingly for his sister, Dis, who had found her One not a day after her coming-of-age and would soon be married.
He would have stayed longer if he had not been dragged back. He would have poked around and tried to find that nice little Hobbit with the big eyes he’d been with once and never saw again. He’d seemed young, perhaps too young, but Thorin had thoroughly enjoyed his company. And… other things, of course. But it was not just that. He had a charming way about him, with his tawny hair and nimble hands and wide eyes and brilliant smile. Thorin had hoped that at the very least, he would see him again once or twice. But it seemed luck was not on his side. He couldn’t even remember the charming creature’s name. Braggins? Broggins? He was not sure.
The next night the family ate together, as if nothing had happened at all. Thorin could tell they were still mad though, from his father’s stony expression to his mother’s worried frown. They ate in silence, which was the only indication that things were tense between them.
Sometime between Thorin’s first and second helpings there was a knock at the door.
“My lord?” Balin poked his head through the door, interrupting their dinner. “I apologise, but an emissary from the Iron Hills wishes to speak to you.”
“It is of no matter, Balin,” Thrain replied with a wave of his hand, “send him in.”
The messenger stepped inside, head held high in that haughty manner that Thorin hated. He came to a stop in front of his mother and father, near the fire, and bowed deeply. “Your Highness.”
Thrain, barely managing to repress an amused smile, bowed his head politely. “What is it you wanted?” he queried.
“I bring a letter from Fain, son of Kain, King of the Iron Hills.” The emissary offered the letter. “Fain wishes to offer you a way of further strengthening our ties.”
“By?” His mother wondered, accepting the parchment.
“Marriage, Your Highness. Between Gila, daughter of Mira and Thorin son of Thrain.”
Thorin stiffened, dropping his fork with a clatter. He’d only been here for all of two days (in fact, barely even that) and he was already being fobbed off to someone from the Iron Hills? He sighed, unhappy. He’d still be in The Shire, if he’d had his way, fixing pots and pans, eating his fill, and searching the rolling hills for that Boggins fellow. Hobbits didn’t have to deal with this sort of arranged marriage nonsense. If they did not wish to marry, they did not marry. It was as simple as that.
Thrain hummed now, reading over his wife’s shoulder. “We shall consider the offer,” he said eventually, looking thoughtful, “and send a reply when we have decided.”
The emissary bowed again. “Yes, Your Highness. Thank you, Your Highness.”
Thorin resisted the urge to immaturely mimic him like some child. He rolled his eyes and glanced down at his plate, appetite diminished all of a sudden.
“So who is it?” Dis demanded once the emissary left, the door clicking shut loudly behind him.
“Who is who?” Thorin asked, unable to keep the ire out of his tone. He reached for his tankard, only half-listening to the reply.
“The one who made you flinch at the thought of marrying another.”
Thorin choked on his drink and turned to find his siblings watching him curiously. His mother as well, from the other side of the room. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, dear sister,” he returned after a moment of clearing his throat and composing himself.
Frerin looked intrigued at the conversation.
Dis just raised an eyebrow. “Sure you don’t.”
“If you want someone else,” Frerin suggested, “why not tell us? I am told the land you took refuge in is fertile and gives an abundance of crops. A marriage between a well-suited Hobbit and yourself would strengthen ties, wouldn’t it, Father?” He twisted in his seat to look at Thrain now.
Thrain was smiling openly, looking far more pleased than he had been a moment ago. “It would, Frerin.” He gave Thorin a considering look.
“Of course,” his brother continued, making Thorin pray to the Maker for some sort of reprieve, “he’d have to tell them he wasn’t just a smith, to begin with, and that he was in fact a Prince! What a shock that would be!”
“I do not know what you’re talking about.” Thorin said again, this time with more irritation. “And I do not wish to talk of this.” He got to his feet, chair scraping behind him. “I am going to my quarters.”
“Planning on writing a love letter, are we?” Frerin teased, jumping to his feet. “Dearest Hobbit, I will forever love you and-”
“Enough,” Thorin growled, stalking from the room. He could hear Dis laughing, and feel the pitying look his mother gave him as he left.
It wasn’t brought up again until some weeks later when they received a rather distinguished visitor.
Tharkûn, the Wizard, waltzing into the royal court like he was expected, and bowing only slightly upon reaching the throne. “King Thrain,” he greeted him politely, “Erebor has flourished under your rule. Your father would be proud.”
Thrain looked pleased. “You are much welcome in our halls, Gandalf. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I am simply passing by,” Gandalf explained. Of course he was. No one expected a wizard to hang round. “I have come from the far West, where your people live, in the Blue Mountains.”
West? Thorin perked up slightly at that. But Gandalf made no further mention of his travels.
The Blue Mountains were right near The Shire. Perhaps Thorin could ask the Wizard about the Hobbits. Well, one Hobbit in particular, but that wasn’t the point.
He realised, rather belatedly, that he had missed the rest of whatever Gandalf had had to say. Something about trade routes, he thought.
“… and you are welcome to stay as long as you need,” Thrain was telling the Wizard now, as Thorin pulled himself from his reverie.
Gandalf bowed his head politely and made move to leave. Thorin decided it was best he speak to him now, before the Wizard disappeared again. He left his place beside the throne and made move to catch up with him.
“Tharkûn,” Thorin began now, reaching his side.
Gandalf turned to look down at him. “Your Highness?”
“On your journey through the West,” he began, quieter than he needed to. They were close to the door, and though they had a few curious spectators, no one was within hearing distance. “Did you perhaps pass through The Shire?”
Gandalf looked surprised, and slightly pleased. “I did, yes,” he returned. “Why do you ask?”
“Then perhaps I may ask if you know of a Hobbit named Boggins?”
The Wizard looked amused, much to Thorin’s irritation. “Boggins?” he asked.
“Yes,” he was fairly certain that was the name. “I would describe him, but I’m afraid it would just sound like any Hobbit.”
Except he wasn’t just any Hobbit. He had the most fascinating eyes and smile and perhaps the most pleasing tufts of hair on his feet and- well, hell, he couldn’t say that, could he?
“I am sorry to tell you, Your Highness, that I have known no such Hobbit by the name of Boggins.”
Thorin sighed loudly, visibly deflating. Pity. “Well, thank you anyway.”
“Is that his name?” Frerin chirped, suddenly behind him, as Gandalf walked way. Mahal, was his brother never relenting in his torture? “Boggins?”
Thorin looked over his shoulder and glowered at his brother. “Must you be so annoying?”
“Boggins, Boggins, Boggins!” Frerin began to chant the word in that sing-song voice of his, catching the attention of the other members of the royal court. On his throne, Thorin could see Thrain raise an eyebrow curiously.
“Hush,” he hissed, closing his eyes and praying for the patience to not cut his brothers head off with an axe. “Shut up, Frerin.”
“Boggins, Boggins-”
Thorin smacked him up the back of his head, making Balin and Dwalin repress snickers across the room. “Get to the sparing grounds,” he ordered. “I would wish to crush you.”
“Dwalin,” Thrain sighed now, “please accompany my sons to the sparring grounds so the rest of us may have some peace.”
Frerin coloured at that, while a small chuckle washed through the room, but other than that he seemed unfazed. Dwalin gave a short nod and walked over to them, ushering them out of the Throne Room.
They were not needed here anyway. They had been in this room long enough, listening to people drone on and on. Thorin sighed, wondering how he’d ever deal with it when he was King. He decided not to think about that until he was older. Much older.
Frerin grinned. “Oh, you won’t this time,” he announced, looking proud of himself as they walked. “I have been practicing brother, in your absence. Unrelentingly.”
Dwalin snorted.
“There is no way I can lose,” he continued, looking certain of himself.
He did lose, of course. And then again when Thorin fought him with the swords, and then again when they switched to axes.
“I thought you said you’d been practicing?” Thorin teased, frowning down at him, sweating and covered in dust on the ground.
“It’s not my fault,” Frerin pouted now. “You’ve got all this anger, pent up frustration because you left some pretty Hobbit back in Hobbiton-”
“I will thrash you again,” Thorin warned.
Frerin stopped, but his grin remained in place. Dwalin disguised laughter as couching, but not very well in Thorin’s opinion.
Thorin briefly wondered, as he had many times these past few weeks, if he should just say that this Boggins was nothing more than someone he’d had a bit of a tussle with at the back of his shop. Certainly it had been a good tussle, and Boggins an enjoyable partner, but he was nothing more. Not some sort of star-crossed lover that his subjects had begun to gossip about. But for the life of him, he felt ashamed admitting that he’d fucked his way through half of Hobbiton on his time away, and that Boggins had just been the best of a batch. He wrinkled his nose. Hardly Princely behaviour.
No, his father would prefer him lying than admitting that. Besides, The Prince with The Lost Love sounded much better than The Prince Who Likes to Sleep ‘Round.
He sighed. There was no escaping this. After all, he’d made his own bed, and it was best he lay in it.
He’d just have to learn to deal with it.