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They had draped him in a cloak of rubies, red as a robin’s breast. The small gemstones covering the cloak glittered in the flickering light of the candles like the tears he wished to shed. He let them fall, one by one, unto the cold unfeeling stone below.
Here, in the dark heart of the mountain Bilbo stood, the newest King of Erebor, crowned in tears, beside the tomb of Thorin Oakenshield.
Through the mass of rock above, the Tomb of Kings was lit by several long, thin narrow slits, where far above, only blue sky could be seen. Each shaft of light touched a single oblong block, about two feet high, laid with a great slab of white stone. Some of the stones only had the skeletal remains of some great lord or ruler of long ago, their robes and jewels now rusted and worn, while others laid empty, waiting in preparation.
Like the other Kings and Queens of Erebor, Thorin had been laid to rest in the deepest part of the Mountain, his body arranged on a large slab of marble at the roots of Erebor. He had been dressed with care in the outfit he had worn during the journey; the elbow-length Brigandine tunic, the midnight blue vest, and the fur cloak. The only adornment he wore was the Arkenstone, gently glimmering in the midst of his long black and silver striped hair.
Gathered around him where the remnants of the Company. To his left-hand side stood Fili, quiet tears streaking down his beard and into his elaborate garnet encrusted tunic. He lent into Bilbo, his heavy weight warm and reassuring in the cold depths of the Mountain. To his other side stood Kili, white as the marble where Thorin rested, propped up on a hastily assembled crutch. Like his brother, he wore an ornate tunic, embellished with beads of purest amber.
In Dwarvish culture, they grieved in a language that was ancient and familiar – the language of rock and stone, gems and jewels. The other dwarves also wore stones or precious ornaments, mostly twisted in their hair, like a Hobbit might braid honeysuckle. As they each in turn bid Thorin their last goodbyes, they marched in solemn silence out of the Tomb of Kings, the stones and gems on their clothes chiming softly, ringing a quiet funeral dirge as they moved.
Up the crooked winding ways, they walked past a crowd of unfamiliar Dwarves lining the route, watching the company, and scrutinizing Bilbo as he led the small procession back to the Throne Room with sombre steps. Their stony faces were lit by the strange iron wrought lanterns hanging above, casting shadows of light on the path below. Bilbo held his head high, tears still drying on his cheeks, knowing that he made a strange sight – a Hobbit in the clothes of a Dwarven King. He thought he caught some of the younger dwarves pointing out his bare, furry feet that would occasionally peek out from under the hem of his cloak, but he paid it no heed.
It took quicker than Bilbo had expected to reach the Throne Room. Before him, a long thin narrow bridge of narrow stone awaited, and at the end, was an ugly, squat chair made of some dark stone. It was a very dwarven throne; it did not pretend that ruling was a pretty, or noble thing. He almost faltered, before feeling Kili’s gentle nudge, and stepped forwards.
Bilbo sat on the Throne of Kings in his red robe of rubies, every eye of the Mountain upon him. The members of the Company stood on either side of the Throne, forming a protective semi-circle. Bilbo spied Dwalin brusquely handing Ori what he could only presume was a handkerchief and smiled gently at the sight. He could see dwarves craning their necks to see him, this small creature who would be their King until Fili, the King’s Heir, was ready to rule. He was glad for the many rubies that disguised his small frame and protected him from the more discerning eyes.
The silence in the Room was now complete, but for the rustle of the rubies on his cloak, and the amber pearls clacking anxiously in the background.
From somewhere amid the watching crowd, a group of dwarves peeled off and walked up to the Throne. The oldest among them, a Dwarf with an even whiter beard than Balin’s, held a great iron box, and with a bow, presented it to Bilbo. With deft hands, the Dwarf flicked open the lid, revealing a small, golden crown, with the same heavy angular lines as the one Thorin wore during his madness. It looked far too heavy for a simple Hobbit like himself.
With a start, Bilbo realised that they were expecting him to do something. He cleared his throat and paused. Fili and Kili shot him worried looks, but he gave them the most reassuring smile he could raise and stood up on the Throne, to the disapproving titters of some Dwarves.
“I will take no Crown but a Crown I will earn with my own hands. No, this Crown will no do at all, beautiful it may be,” said Bilbo, in as loud a voice as he could manage. “I thank you,” he finished, lamely. In the resulting quiet, he could swear he could hear centuries worth of tradition and expectations crumbling around him.
Then, Fili stepped forward, and hammering his hand against his chest, and said: “I crown you with your love. Your love, which guided you to take my place as King, and its crown I too have not earned from Erebor’s people.”
Beside him, Kili walked forwards, and added in: “I crown you with your courage. Your courage, which guided you to take your place as King, despite the terrors of the crown. I could not bear the same burden, and neither can my brother. But your courage will allow him to learn how.”
Suddenly, it seemed like every dwarf was speaking at once. Bilbo could barely hear what they were saying, their words overlapping, twisted into incomprehensible fragments. He caught some of the words from the Companions, and it made him blush the same colour as the rubies he wore: crown with devotion, crown with hope, crown with wit.
The dwarves were crowning him with praise. It was worse than the golden crown they had initially presented himself with. After the last echoes faded, the lead dwarf from the group that had presented him the Crown initially removed it from its box.
You have defeated what I could not, Burglar whispered a deep, familiar voice, flowing up from the stone around him.
With strong hands he grasped the crown, and scrunched it in his hands, breaking the metal apart with a harsh crack that resounded throughout the Room. He then lent down towards his cupped hands and breathed on the metal. The old dwarf then instructed the metal, first in Dwarvish, and then in Common: “Form a garland.”
With his gnarled hands still cupped carefully around the remnants of the golden crown, the elderly Dwarf approached Bilbo once more. He bowed his head to accept the Dwarf's gift, and felt something very Hobbitish be placed lightly on his curls – a wreath of flowers, conjured from the old crown.
It is right you should be crowned with a crown you have earned said the voice of a King Bilbo had just buried as he was crowned with a golden wreath of deserved praise.