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"What is that in your hand," Thorin growled. "Show it to me!"
Bilbo had no reason to hide (this, at least), so he let his hand lie open, the little acorn resting in his palm. Thorin's expression sifted to something other than rage for the first time in days- though Bilbo couldn't quite place what he was thinking as he stared at the seed.
"It's from Beorn's garden," Bilbo put out into the silence which had fallen between them. "I thought I might plant it at Bag End."
"You carried that with you all this way," Thorin asked in wonderment, smiling at the Hobbit in such an open, innocent way that Bilbo's chest clenched. "On the path through Mirkwood? Through the river in barrels?"
"Well, I wasn't actually in a barrel, if you remember," Bilbo reminded him. "I wasn't as fortunate as you lot were in that affair."
"Yes," Thorin breathed, and it almost sounded like laughter, though Bilbo couldn't quite believe it. "Our courageous little Hobbit."
Bilbo cleared his throat, trying to think of a way to extend the moment- this chance to talk to Thorin again. Maybe, if he could make it last, he might be able to talk some sense into him about this whole situation. But it was best not to start with all that. Maybe it would be better to ease into it, to assure Thorin of his well-meaning first.
He took his seat back on the bench and invited Thorin to join him with a gesture. Much to his surprise, Thorin took the seat graciously, a small smile still gracing his lips.
"You Hobbits are very fond of gardens if I do recall correctly," Thorin observed after a companionable moment of silence.
"We are, indeed," Bilbo agreed, grasping desperately at any thread of conversation. "If the trees at Beorn's cottage were any indication, I imagine this acorn will grow to be the envy of the Shire!" Thorin merely chuckled so he continued on. "My people place a lot of value in a garden. All Hobbits are all very fond of things that grow- in fact we have written many a song which liken life itself to a garden. I myself have composed a few, though they are certainly nothing to be admired."
"I did not know you were a poet, Bilbo," Thorin said almost reverently. "Then, I should not be surprised by your many talents at this point," he added and Bilbo blushed, rolling the acorn in his palm. "Could I ask of you to sing me one of these songs about gardens and life?"
"Oh, I don't think my voice is quite suited for an audience of kings…" Bilbo started, embarrassed to have rambled on so. This wasn't where he had intended this conversation to go at all.
"Please," Thorin asked, quietly. "I insist."
Bilbo sighed shakily. He could not lose this opportunity, this trust Thorin was showing him, just because he was embarrassed about his voice.
So he chose a song his mother had taught him when he was young. He started to sing- quietly at first, but gaining a bit of volume as he back more comfortable with the way his voice was echoing through the grand rafters of Erebor.
"Mountains rise and valleys fall,
sweet waters flow down over it all.
The hand of creation lies all around,
and the garden is growing, even now.
Who will work in this garden now,
clear the weeds, lay hold of the plow?
Plant the seeds and nourish the ground,
for the garden is growing, even now.
Who will raise hope up high,
build wings for the dreams and make them fly?
Cherish the truth, never lay it down,
for the garden is growing, even now."
The echoes of his song rang through the halls, and some of the dwarves in the treasure hall paused in their search, turning to listen.
Bilbo cleared his throat, blushing profusely and unwilling to meet Thorin's gaze. A warm hand landed on his shoulder and he looked up. Thorin's slate colored eyes stared back at him, so deep and with such sweetness that it was all Bilbo could do to stare back.
"Thorin," a voice cracked through the moment like a whip. "That Man from Laketown is waiting outside the gate. Says he needs to speak with you."
Bilbo watched Thorin's face as ice crept over his features. The face of his friend had gone, leaving behind only malice and stone. And then he was gone- in a whirl of fur and metal- leaving Bilbo alone on the bench, throat raw from singing and the sadness, cradling an acorn in his open palm.
"Stupid, stupid," Bilbo told himself. Why couldn't he have just said what needed to be said- why had he gone on singing silly little songs instead of attending to the matters at hand? But it was too late for regrets now. The song from his life in the Shire had settled a sourness that had been growing in his gut ever since he hid the Arkenstone in his bedroll.
He knew what he needed to do.