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When Thorin first woke up, he was certain he was still trapped in a nightmare.
There was a solid stone ceiling above him, not the empty sky of the battlefield, but he could still hear the cries and howls in his ears, the clash of metal on metal ringing all around him, screams of pain and roars of victory all mixing together in a painful cacophony of fear and destruction. Some voices were familiar, other strange echoes, and then there were the orcs and the goblins with their incomprehensible gibberish, tearing at him like poison seeping into his mind.
He remembered someone calling out that the princes had fallen, knew the words had reached his ears at some point, could remember the cold clench of fear and pain around his heart. It was not clear whether it was a dream or a memory, a nightmare either way.
His hands closed on nothing as he clenched them but he could still feel his sword, could feel the weight of it in his aching arms, the satisfaction of having it sink into enemy flesh. The pain of the enemy's blade, too, was all too clear, and flared up anew as he tried to shift, tried to sit up to call for someone to tell him the truth. He sank back onto the bed, a hoarse moan of pain escaping his throat at the effort.
Pathetic. What kind of a king couldn't even get up to inquire about his heirs?
If he even was a king, a bitter thought crossed his mind. He was in Erebor, that much was clear; though he did not recognize this specific room he could feel it in his bones, could close his eyes and feel the caves and tunnels reaching out every way around him, all the way until the core of the mountain. However, just because they had claimed the mountain to themselves did not yet mean he was its king. It was his right, certainly, his duty even to his line, but he had not yet been crowned. Twelve dwarrows who would follow him to nigh-certain death were a good foundation to his rule, but not yet the truth.
Even if nothing else stood in his way, he would have to live until he was fit to be crowned before his people.
He parted his lips, wetting them briefly before trying out his voice. "Fíli?" The word came out hoarse and pained, barely audible even to his own ears. Certainly it would reach nobody outside the room.
Pathetic.
There was the creak of a door, and he turned his head, even the simple gesture slow and labored as his aching body protested the slightest movement. He blinked as he saw the thick oaken door open, revealing a very familiar figure, holding a bowl in his hands.
"Thorin?" Bilbo Baggins blinked, paused, then cried out, "Thorin! You're awake!" There was the bustle of feet somewhere without the room, but Thorin cared little for that, his eyes fixed on the little figure approaching him. Even in his surprise Bilbo was practical enough to set the bowl aside on a little table before coming to his bedside.
"Bilbo?" Again, his voice was raw, but then, he didn't get to use it much. The word had barely left his lips as he found a warm, plump finger pressed against them.
"Hush. You shouldn't speak, not until you've had something to drink at least." Bilbo blinked, then, and withdrew his hand quickly. "Oh, dear, I am so sorry! I did not mean to — you just shouldn't speak yet." He turned toward the table now, hands fussing about the few things there, obviously trying to cover up embarrassment. Too bad Thorin could see the hint of a flush on his round little cheeks.
He would have allowed himself a smirk if he'd had more energy. As it was, he simply followed the hobbit with his gaze.
"I do apologize, I promised Óin to keep an eye on you while he tends to others, and I just stepped out for a second! I needed to get some clean water, you see, it's soon time to change your dressings again, can't do that without cleaning the wounds. But now I'd probably best leave that to Óin, he'll want to check you over himself anyway. I'll just get things here ready for him, yes, that's what I'll do."
Thorin waited until the fussing hobbit had gathered himself enough to look toward the bed again, then flicked his eyes towards the door. It was the most he could do without trying to speak, really, but thankfully Bilbo seemed to understand his concern.
"Ah, yes, the others have made quite the camp in the hall outside, the ones who aren't bedridden or helping others. We've been taking turns with you, you see, each sitting here for a bit. Bofur was there just now; I bet he's gone to get Óin now that he heard you're awake. He's going to be back in just moments, I'm sure." Bilbo tsked. "Took some work, convincing them you don't need more than one standing guard at all times. The room was getting quite crowded at first, if you can imagine."
Thorin's lips curled the slightest bit. Yes, he could quite well imagine that. Even at the risk of hobbit wrath, he then drew a small breath, steeling himself for another word or two. "Fíli? …And Kíli?"
"I told you, no speaking yet. You've been out a while, your throat must be parched. Here, let me get you something to drink, I'm sure Bombur left some behind when he was here this morning."
Thorin frowned. Bilbo was stalling. That meant there was something he didn't want to tell him.
Something about Fíli and Kíli.
Returning from his fussied search with a cup of something that Thorin presumed was liquid, Bilbo saw his frown. "Ah, sorry. I didn't mean to concern you." He sighed, one hand sneaking behind Thorin's head, the other bringing the cup to his lips. The cool water was a great relief to his parched mouth. "Fíli and Kíli are alive, I promise you. They just… aren't quite all right yet."
Thorin's frown deepened. "How?" He managed to ask between gulps of the water.
"They were as good as dead," Bilbo murmured. "We certainly thought so when we first found them, together on the battlefield. Perhaps that's what saved them, though — nobody thought to finish them off, bloodied and broken as they were. They're both still breathing, though, and will recover, the healers are sure of that. They just need time, that's all."
Thorin nodded. It was far from ideal, but it was still better than waking up to find them dead. "And… me?"
Bilbo's face was touched by something like a smile. "Oh, you will live, all right," he said. "As though anything could hold you back, you stupid stubborn dwarf. I'm surprised you've stayed down as long as you have. After all, we only needed to put some of your guts back inside."
That… didn't sound pleasant in any way. It must have showed on his face, because Bilbo chuckled, amused at his expense.
"Don't worry, we didn't let any elves touch you. Óin's taken your healing as a personal challenge. And before you ask, your dear nephews are in excellent hands as well," Bilbo added. Was he truly that transparent? "It seems Tauriel has taken it upon herself to nurse them back to health. Bofur speaks great things of her abilities. Apparently he's had the honor of witnessing them before."
Thorin frowned. The name sounded familiar, and not in a good way. It sounded… like an elven name, actually.
His sister-sons were in the treacherous hands of some weed-eater? And worse than that, the rest of the Company was aware of this and hadn't even tried to put a stop to it?
He opened his mouth to protest, only to be again silenced by a soft finger. "Don't start," Bilbo said, his tone surprisingly firm. "Tauriel has already saved Kíli's life once; she's not going to let them perish now. And mark my words, Thorin Oakenshield, you will not be so dishonorable as to scold her for the sin of saving them. You are too old for such childishness, and bearing a grudge against an entire race for the misdeeds of few makes you no better than Thranduil."
Thorin bit his mouth shut with a sharp click of his teeth. Oh, so he was getting compared to the Elvenking, now? And scolded by a Halfling?
The Halfling he had cast out for trying to save them from the war his gold-madness had almost driven them to. The Halfling who was still standing there, right beside his bed, worrying over his health like a plump little hen.
Well. Perhaps Bilbo did have some right to lecture him about holding grudges.
He should have said something more, then, not about elves but about Bilbo, about his own treatment of such a brave creature. He should have admitted his wrong, should have apologized, should have thanked Bilbo for staying beside him and asked him to keep doing so.
The words were heavy in his chest, though, and slow on his tongue, and before he had managed to force any of them out the doorway was crowded by dwarves, Óin first of all. Bilbo stepped aside, then, letting Óin get to him, with other familiar faces surrounding his bed, and the moment was gone from his grasp.
He still had time, though. All he needed to do was get the words out before Bilbo left.
It couldn't be that hard.
*
Finding the words, Thorin was coming to realize, was not just hard, but nigh impossible.
It was hard enough trying to get everything clear in his own head, where at least nobody had to be subjected to the various fumbling attempts at putting all his emotions and desires into words. He imagined trying to get everything straight while actually voicing it all to a rather befuddled Bilbo, and shuddered. The Halfling would probably run away long before his still exhausted voice gave out.
Bilbo, thankfully, had patience enough not to demand such words from him yet, however much he might have been owed such. He stuck by Thorin's side without demanding apologies or explanations, helped him when he was too weak to even feed himself, never scolded him for his foolish pride except when it meant he was trying to get out of bed too early. The dear halfling certainly would have had the right to lecture Thorin until his ears fell off, but he stayed his tongue, doubtlessly waiting until Thorin was better, the overly courteous little soul. In the meantime, he was also giving Thorin time to think over what he would say.
He certainly needed all the time he could get.
It was frustrating, being finally in Erebor yet unable to do much of anything. Balin was running things while he and his nephews were all bedridden, occasionally giving him quite detailed reports on everything, assuring him there was no hurry and he should just focus on getting better, really lad, don't push yourself now. It was a relief and a frustration in one, but he knew he could not serve his people as they deserved, not until he had fully recovered. Taking responsibility for an entire dwarven kingdom was not something to be undertaken lightly.
Of course, this meant he had some time after he had recovered enough to spend some of the day up and about yet before any of his oh so loyal companions would allow him on the throne. He visited his nephews first of all, making sure they were on their way to recovery like everyone kept telling him. Not that he believed any would have lied to him about such things, but he wouldn't have put it past them to try and soften the blow. However, it seemed the reports were true; Fíli and Kíli were recovering fast as only young dwarrows could, and would soon be on their feet as well.
Aside from visiting other convalescents and sitting in the chamber he had been set into, however, there still wasn't much his energy could stretch to. Even the oh so arduous task of wandering the tunnels of Erebor, seeing the areas that were quickly being cleaned and reclaimed, tired him within moments. This might otherwise have left him in the privacy of his chamber, spending time with listening to his companions prattle on about this or that, except doing so meant Bilbo was constantly there. He had little to do as Thorin was healing, yet insisted on keeping him company either way, speaking to him about some very Hobbitish matter or another, or simply sitting there as though it were the most natural place for him. Which meant that Thorin could feel very intimately just how desperately he needed words that he could not find.
His rescue came by chance as he heard Ori make some mention of going to see the royal library. Thorin offered to show the way before anyone else could. After all, unlike Ori, he had actually been in Erebor before Smaug, and knew his way well enough.
He had to admit to feeling some dread as they approached the library. It had been one of the prides of Erebor, at least until Thror had been too taken by his gold madness to care about anything that didn't glitter. If the library had been destroyed by the worm, it would be a tremendous loss. SOme of the works there had never been copied anywhere else, as he could remember his mother telling them with an almost reverent tone. She at least had seen the value of knowledge, too.
Relief flooded Thorin as they opened the doors, finding that nothing but dust had touched the contents. Ori immediately started fussing about the shelves, appalled at seeing such treasures left untouched for so long. Thorin paused in the doorway for a moment, then made his way to a seat and dropped down heavily, ignoring the cloud of dust that erupted.
"There's so much here," Ori breathed. "So many books and scrolls and tablets…"
"Take your time looking around," Thorin said. "You'll need to know the place if I'm to make you a librarian."
Immediately the younger dwarf spun around, his eyes widening in shock and perhaps even fear. "I couldn't," he gasped. "Not me!"
"The old librarian perished in the fire." Like so many others. "I don't know if there are any others among those planning to return who would be willing or suitable for the position, but I do know that none of them have risked so much or worked so far."
"But I know very little," Ori said, wringing his hands. "I wouldn't even know where to begin."
"You know how to read and write," Thorin reminded him. "And if there's ever been some order to this place, that knowledge has been forgotten. Everything needs to be cleaned and arranged again in any case."
Ori still tried to protest, of course he did, but Thorin wouldn't have any of it. Those who had come to his Company deserved just rewards, certainly more so than any old cowards who might have demanded such rights despite failing to answer his call. If that meant he was going to fill all the important posts with those who had shared the journey with him, well, that was his right as a king. Revered positions had been handed out for worse reasons before.
And if he needed to keep reassuring Ori of his worth for several days as they both gravitated to the library again and again, well, he only seemed to lack the words around Bilbo.
In a way, it was a good thing Ori seemed to have an almost unreasonable amount of respect for him. Otherwise he might have gossiped away about the uncrowned king's strange tendency for romantic poetry.
It wasn't his fault that he had developed a taste for such stories, really. He had often listened to Dis tell stories to her sons, especially after her husband died, and the bedtime stories were always the same, of estranged lovers and painful yearning and heartfelt reunions at last when the obstacles had been cleared. They heard enough of war elsewhere, she had often said firmly if anyone had questioned her tales for her two sons, and would see enough of it if they took after their hard-headed uncle, Mahal forbid. She would not sully their dreams with any more blood and fear than they would encounter anyway.
There were many such stories that he had heard over the years, the dwarven tradition rich with them, with seeking and finding and keeping your one true love, the greatest treasure Mahal could bestow upon any single dwarf. While at first he had listened to them with nigh boredom, only standing such nonsense because this was his sister and he would have done anything for her, he was too smart not to, over time he had found some appeal. There had been something so familiar in those feelings of longing, the yearning for someone you wanted and could not get, someone who belonged with you. For all that he had been dreaming of a lost kingdom and not a lost lover, the yearning and desire, his younger self had been convinced, was still the same.
Now, reading of a miserable dwarven prince mourn his separation from his love, and finding his mind's eye gazing upon a head of messy brown curls, he was not so sure anymore.
*
Of course, time waited for no dwarf, not even the King Under the Mountain. Some of the dwarves of the Iron Hill had already started their trek home, while others had recovered enough to put together a caravan to head to the Blue Mountains, there to bring home more refugees of Erebor. Glóin was raring to go at the head of the expedition, eager to see his wife and wee lad again, with Bombur going along to get his family as well, and Bilbo was planning to go with them. On the way to the Blue Mountains they would pass close by his home, after all, so he might as well make use of the company and protection on the way.
For all that he had known to expect this, had known Bilbo would yearn for his old and familiar little hole in the end, Thorin was taken by surprise. Somehow he had thought he would have time enough to find the words, to voice what he thought and felt and desired, and hopefully have Bilbo respond. Yet here he was, watching the last of the preparations as the caravan got ready to ride out.
Those of the Company who were staying in Erebor for now were surrounding those leaving, bidding goodbyes until their arrival. Fíli and Kíli spent an inordinate amount of time fussing with Bilbo's horse, throwing meaningful gazes Thorin's way every now and then. The meddling brats. They were barely out of bed with their injuries, yet they insisted on getting involved in his business.
"Thorin?" Except that was Bilbo, not Fíli or Kíli. Finally forcing his eyes to the halfling, he found Bilbo looking at him expectantly. "Am I not getting a farewell?" Bilbo was just standing there, eyes so bright and a smile playing on his lips, and Thorin swallowed. All this time, and he had yet to find the right words.
This was it. He had to ask Bilbo to stay, had to apologize to him and promise far better things if only he could stand beside Thorin for a little while longer, if he could give Thorin a chance. If he failed now, it would be years before he had the chance to do so again, if he ever found the opportunity.
He thought of years upon years without a polite little firecracker within his reach, and his heart felt empty like a hollow cavern deep in a mountain.
Please stay. That was all he had to say. Please stay with me.
"My hearth is always warm, that you might never feel cold," he said, and though those weren't the words he had been meaning to say, he figured they would do just as well. "My walls are thick and my gates sturdy, that you might lay down your blade and rest without fear. My tables are full and my chests never empty, that you may never hunger or thirst again. No treasure lies in my vault but that you may take it. No braid is put into my hair but that you may open it again. All I have is yours, all I am is yours. You need but to accept it."
For a moment, there was complete silence, and he was very well aware of the numerous pairs of eyes locked upon him. Finally, Bilbo cleared his throat. "Ah… Thorin? Are you feeling quite all right?"
Before his disappointment and dread could entirely consume Thorin, Kíli chuckled, never one to be held back by anything for too long. "Uncle's just being himself, Bilbo, I'm afraid," he said. "Basically, instead of just saying he'd quite like you to stay and would you please consider forgiving him, he chose to recite one of the sappiest proposals known in all of dwarven poetry."
"Proposal?" Bilbo's eyes widened in a manner that Thorin might have found humorous if not for the situation. "You mean… like…"
"Aye, of marriage." Kíli's eyes were dancing with mirth at his poor uncle's expense. "Which I'd take to mean he really doesn't want you to go, if I were you."
Why, oh, why couldn't the mountain just come up and swallow him whole?
Bilbo opened his mouth as though to ask something, then just looked around. He was met with solemn nods from everyone. What, had everyone been snickering at Thorin's agony behind his back?
Had his yearning truly been that transparent?
"Well," Bilbo said then, in that utterly reasonable and calm voice of his, and how exactly could he do that? "I suppose I can just as well wait until the next caravan at least. After all, I doubt you're going to entirely cut off the Blue Mountains once the first caravan gets back."
"Thank you for that." Fíli was now the one to grin at him. "You think an angry Thorin can be unbearable, you've never seen him sulk."
Thorin should have protested at that, he really should have. Instead, all his thoughts were focused on the one thing that mattered. Bilbo had agreed to stay, at least for a while.
"Oh, I think I can imagine. Dwarves seem to have a talent for being grumpy." Bilbo ignored all the indignant protests, a smile on his face. He glanced at Thorin, then, and there was something soft in his eyes. "Everything else we can discuss later, I'm sure," he added. "In our own words."
"Yes," Thorin said, and swallowed. "You'll have to give me time, though."
Though he supposed he could have started off worse.
*
He wasn't sure who had helped Bilbo find the story he had found his words from, or who had helped him translate from the Khudzul, but as he finally got his response, Thorin figured he could let the mysterious perpetrator be.
Everyone knew nobody remembered all the old romances better than Dwalin, anyway.