Fic: In this Fading Light
Title: In this Fading Light
Fandom: The Hobbit
Characters: Bilbo, Thorin, Legolas
Pairing: Gen, Friendship
Rating: PG
Summary: Sequel to By the Light of this Small Flame
Bilbo is once again traveling through Mirkwood, this time in the company of elves. Despite their comforting presence and large fires, he again finds it hard sleep, thoughts too focused on his previous trip and the companions he has lost.
From high atop the stone dais Dain, King under the Mountain sat on the stone throne and looked kindly down at Bilbo. “Take the treasure, Master Hobbit. One fourteenth of the share is rightly yours.”
Bilbo fidgeted where he stood, all too aware that the eyes of all the dwarves in the hall rested on him. He lightly traced the ring in his pocket, half tempted to put it on just to escape them. “My share was given to Bard in exchange for the Arkenstone,” he protested nervously.
“Aye,” Dain nodded, “and you saved us all with that move, even Thorin would have admitted that now. He would not have seen you leave here empty handed.”
Beside him Bofur huffed. “He would not have you leave here at all,” he muttered under his breath.
Bilbo ignored him. “What would a hobbit do with piles of gold? Fill up the guest bedrooms and dig secret tunnels to let it sit in and grow dust? Really, this is ridiculous. I don’t need any of it.”
Dain stood from the throne and walked down the dais so he stood directly in front of Bilbo, not three feet away. His beard, Bilbo noticed, was dark like Thorin’s, but long and intricately braided with dark blue and green beads.
“We owe you a great debt, lad,” he said softly. “Your companions have filled me in on all that has passed on your journey here. We would not be standing in these great halls if it were not for you. You would not deny us the chance to pay back what we owe?”
It was cold in the mountain, the forges below not yet lit, and Bilbo drew his coat tighter around him as he thought. If there was one thing he’d learned on this adventure, it was about the pride of dwarves. And Dain, though more even tempered than his cousin, was just as prideful as Thorin.
Bilbo sighed. “Alright,” he agreed, “but not a whole fourteenth. Two chests. And small ones, so I can easily take it with me to the Shire.”
Dain clapped him on the shoulder. “Done.” The dwarf king turned to two of his subjects and directed them to find two chests and fill them--one with silver, one with gold--and attach them to the saddle of Bilbo’s pony. Bilbo turned away, relieved to have this business over and done with. He started to head out of the hall. The wood elves were preparing to leave outside of the mountain, and Bilbo was eager to join them.
Bofur fell into step with him as he walked. “Must you go so soon?” he asked quietly. “You haven’t seen Erebor at its finest yet. We haven’t even begun to clean and rebuild it.”
Bilbo looked up and around him. The massive, arched stone walls surrounding them had been charred and blackened by fire, the rows of tall pillars seemed to have been deliberately smashed into rubble, and Bilbo could only assume it was for the precious gems and gold built right into them. The fifty or so torches that had been lit did nothing brighten their surroundings, leaving only a pocket of light swallowed by the deep shadows of the mountain. Even still, it was not hard to imagine the grandness of Erebor 60 years ago.
“I’m sorry, Bofur,” Bilbo finally replied, equally as quiet. “I just don’t think I can stay.”
--
Mirkwood didn’t seem as dark as it did on the trip to Erebor. Perhaps it was because Bilbo was now in the company of elves. Their light, cheerful songs and bell like laughter, coupled with the bright torches so many of them carried would chase away any shadows, he thought. Their company was a lively one, all the wood elves relieved that it was the end of the battle and happy to be heading home again. When they camped for the night they all circled around many fires and ate light breads and fruits and passed around a clear, sweet liquid that made Bilbo’s head dizzy and his body as light weight as the flickering flames. He fell asleep easily under its influence, curled up in his bedroll beside his pack.
He did not sleep through the night however, waking just a few hours later. Unable to sleep again, he sat up and looked around him. It was quieter now. Though many of the elves were still awake, they had stopped singing and dancing and were instead sitting quietly by the fires, conversing softly in their own tongue. Across from the camp Bilbo could hear the light sound of a flute, and though the song was strange to his ears, it reminded him so much of the times that Bofur would play his late at night that Bilbo ached to hear it.
Throwing the rest of his bedding off, he stood up. Beside him Gandalf was asleep, soft snores coming from underneath his hat, staff still clutched in his hands. Bilbo carefully tip toed around him and made his way to the closest fire.
It was so unlike the ones the company had as they made their weary way on the Old Forest Road. The elves were not afraid to leave the path and so had gathered enough firewood for several large blazes, filling their campsite with light and revealing the tall trees surrounding them.
Bilbo stood awkwardly by the fire, not sure of his welcome. The elves he met at Rivendell were welcoming enough, but before the battle at the Lonely Mountain the last time he’d seen these particular elves was while he was sneaking around their home, invisible and with his friends locked in their prisons.
One elf saw him lingering there and stood up, gesturing at him from across the fire. “Ah, Bilbo Baggins. You are awake. Come, share my bench.”
Bilbo nervously made his way around the fire to the blond elf. “I’m sorry,” he said as he sat down, “But I uh, do not know-“
“I am Legolas,” the elf told him.
Bilbo’s eyes widened. “Legolas! You are son of-“
“Of Thranduil, yes.” Legolas smiled at him. “I have been eager to meet the Halfling who managed to smuggle 13 dwarves out of our prison. Just one would have been an unprecedented event.”
Bilbo flushed and tugged absently at the collar of his shirt. “Well, I, uh…” he stuttered. “I mean, it wasn’t-“
“And the talk around the camp is of your other deeds-fighting orcs and saving kings, killing spiders and bringing three races together for battle. I had no idea Halflings were so courageous. I thought they mostly stayed in their holes and ate and smoked until they grew fat.” The elf’s voice was light and teasing, smile bright.
“Well most do,” Bilbo sighed. “And I’d like to get back to that life as soon as I can.” He grew quiet after he said this, fingers idly tracing just underneath the collar of shirt.
The elf prince’s words reminded him too much of a similar conversation, just a little over a fortnight ago.
When the dwarves entered the large hall where Smaug had gathered all the treasure, Bilbo’s companions went mad with glee: running forward to dig through the piles, donning intricately made rings and jeweled necklaces, filling silver goblets with gold coins and precious gems. But not Thorin. Thorin was calm. He stood at the entrance to the room and looked around him, eyes devouring every bit of what he had reclaimed. Bilbo wasn’t sure he’d move from that spot at all until the dwarf suddenly strode forward, crossing the hall in large, determined steps. He stopped right in front of large pillar, reaching down to the bottom and pulling something up that was mostly buried under the gold. The rest of the dwarves fell silent as he held it up.
It was a shirt. Or at least, Bilbo thought it was a shirt. As Thorin raised it up the light caught on it and it shined and glimmered brighter than anything else in the hall.
“Mithril…” Dwalin murmured, voice awed.
Thorin’s eyes locked briefly with Dwalin’s before turning Bilbo. Slowly, he made his way to the hobbit. “Here,” he said gruffly, holding the shirt out to him. “This is for you.” Now that it was closer Bilbo could see that it wasn’t a shirt, but chainmail made from fine, tiny silver links.
A little uncomfortable with the way the other dwarves were staring at them, that awed look still on their faces, Bilbo shook his head. “Oh no, I couldn’t.”
“This, Master Hobbit is Mithril.” Thorin shook the mail, the chains clinking together to make a light, musical sound. “You will find no stronger metal in all of Middle Earth. Just the thing for a burglar who insists on launching himself at orcs or fighting spiders or,” Thorin smiled slightly at him, amusement lining voice, “playing riddles with dragons.”
Behind him Kili smothered a laugh.
“But, surely,” Bilbo protested, “one of the others-“
Thorin cut him off, pressing the chainmail into his hand. “It is yours,” he said quietly. Without waiting for an answer he turned around, marching into the hall to explore it further.
Now that the show was over the other dwarves did the same. Kili nudged his brother in the ribs and pointed at the mail in Bilbo’s hands. “I want one of those! Quick,” turned to a gold pile, gesturing for Fili to do the same, “Let’s find one before the others!”
Bilbo stayed put at the entrance, hands curling around the precious gift, the metal already warming in his hands.
Now, Bilbo traced the outline of the Mithril chainmail, feeling the intricate metal work just underneath the layer of his shirt. He wore it during the battle on the slopes of Erebor, and hadn’t taken it off since.
“You are troubled,” Legolas said softly, interrupting the hobbit’s thoughts.
Bilbo dropped his hand. “What? Oh, no. I’m fine,” he denied. “Just a little tired, I suppose, and unable to sleep.” He gazed off into the fire, which had grown so large it was hard to see over it from where he was sitting. “You know, the first time I traveled through these woods it rained for two weeks straight, and we had so little wood we couldn’t make a fire a fourth this size.”
“That doesn’t make for a comfortable journey,” the elf commented.
“No,” Bilbo murmured, “No it didn’t.”
The fires of those nights did not burn yellow and white, like this one. They were small, red and orange and mostly just hot coals, providing little heat and even less light. There was just a enough to light the faces of his companions as they all huddled around it, shoulder to shoulder in an attempt to protect themselves from the rain, and the dark.
It was strange, he thought, that he almost wished to go back to those times.
Beside him Legolas studied the hobbit’s wishful expression. “You must be impatient to get back home.”
Bilbo remembered Fili and Kili: pale and still on the battlefield, thought of Thorin: buried deep in the mountain with the Arkenstone resting on his chest, imagined the great halls of Erebor finished and rebuilt, but with no one from the line of Durin to sit at its throne.
“Yes,” he said quietly, hand once more gong up to trace the thin layer of metal underneath his collar. “I want nothing else now.”
Fandom: The Hobbit
Characters: Bilbo, Thorin, Legolas
Pairing: Gen, Friendship
Rating: PG
Summary: Sequel to By the Light of this Small Flame
Bilbo is once again traveling through Mirkwood, this time in the company of elves. Despite their comforting presence and large fires, he again finds it hard sleep, thoughts too focused on his previous trip and the companions he has lost.
From high atop the stone dais Dain, King under the Mountain sat on the stone throne and looked kindly down at Bilbo. “Take the treasure, Master Hobbit. One fourteenth of the share is rightly yours.”
Bilbo fidgeted where he stood, all too aware that the eyes of all the dwarves in the hall rested on him. He lightly traced the ring in his pocket, half tempted to put it on just to escape them. “My share was given to Bard in exchange for the Arkenstone,” he protested nervously.
“Aye,” Dain nodded, “and you saved us all with that move, even Thorin would have admitted that now. He would not have seen you leave here empty handed.”
Beside him Bofur huffed. “He would not have you leave here at all,” he muttered under his breath.
Bilbo ignored him. “What would a hobbit do with piles of gold? Fill up the guest bedrooms and dig secret tunnels to let it sit in and grow dust? Really, this is ridiculous. I don’t need any of it.”
Dain stood from the throne and walked down the dais so he stood directly in front of Bilbo, not three feet away. His beard, Bilbo noticed, was dark like Thorin’s, but long and intricately braided with dark blue and green beads.
“We owe you a great debt, lad,” he said softly. “Your companions have filled me in on all that has passed on your journey here. We would not be standing in these great halls if it were not for you. You would not deny us the chance to pay back what we owe?”
It was cold in the mountain, the forges below not yet lit, and Bilbo drew his coat tighter around him as he thought. If there was one thing he’d learned on this adventure, it was about the pride of dwarves. And Dain, though more even tempered than his cousin, was just as prideful as Thorin.
Bilbo sighed. “Alright,” he agreed, “but not a whole fourteenth. Two chests. And small ones, so I can easily take it with me to the Shire.”
Dain clapped him on the shoulder. “Done.” The dwarf king turned to two of his subjects and directed them to find two chests and fill them--one with silver, one with gold--and attach them to the saddle of Bilbo’s pony. Bilbo turned away, relieved to have this business over and done with. He started to head out of the hall. The wood elves were preparing to leave outside of the mountain, and Bilbo was eager to join them.
Bofur fell into step with him as he walked. “Must you go so soon?” he asked quietly. “You haven’t seen Erebor at its finest yet. We haven’t even begun to clean and rebuild it.”
Bilbo looked up and around him. The massive, arched stone walls surrounding them had been charred and blackened by fire, the rows of tall pillars seemed to have been deliberately smashed into rubble, and Bilbo could only assume it was for the precious gems and gold built right into them. The fifty or so torches that had been lit did nothing brighten their surroundings, leaving only a pocket of light swallowed by the deep shadows of the mountain. Even still, it was not hard to imagine the grandness of Erebor 60 years ago.
“I’m sorry, Bofur,” Bilbo finally replied, equally as quiet. “I just don’t think I can stay.”
--
Mirkwood didn’t seem as dark as it did on the trip to Erebor. Perhaps it was because Bilbo was now in the company of elves. Their light, cheerful songs and bell like laughter, coupled with the bright torches so many of them carried would chase away any shadows, he thought. Their company was a lively one, all the wood elves relieved that it was the end of the battle and happy to be heading home again. When they camped for the night they all circled around many fires and ate light breads and fruits and passed around a clear, sweet liquid that made Bilbo’s head dizzy and his body as light weight as the flickering flames. He fell asleep easily under its influence, curled up in his bedroll beside his pack.
He did not sleep through the night however, waking just a few hours later. Unable to sleep again, he sat up and looked around him. It was quieter now. Though many of the elves were still awake, they had stopped singing and dancing and were instead sitting quietly by the fires, conversing softly in their own tongue. Across from the camp Bilbo could hear the light sound of a flute, and though the song was strange to his ears, it reminded him so much of the times that Bofur would play his late at night that Bilbo ached to hear it.
Throwing the rest of his bedding off, he stood up. Beside him Gandalf was asleep, soft snores coming from underneath his hat, staff still clutched in his hands. Bilbo carefully tip toed around him and made his way to the closest fire.
It was so unlike the ones the company had as they made their weary way on the Old Forest Road. The elves were not afraid to leave the path and so had gathered enough firewood for several large blazes, filling their campsite with light and revealing the tall trees surrounding them.
Bilbo stood awkwardly by the fire, not sure of his welcome. The elves he met at Rivendell were welcoming enough, but before the battle at the Lonely Mountain the last time he’d seen these particular elves was while he was sneaking around their home, invisible and with his friends locked in their prisons.
One elf saw him lingering there and stood up, gesturing at him from across the fire. “Ah, Bilbo Baggins. You are awake. Come, share my bench.”
Bilbo nervously made his way around the fire to the blond elf. “I’m sorry,” he said as he sat down, “But I uh, do not know-“
“I am Legolas,” the elf told him.
Bilbo’s eyes widened. “Legolas! You are son of-“
“Of Thranduil, yes.” Legolas smiled at him. “I have been eager to meet the Halfling who managed to smuggle 13 dwarves out of our prison. Just one would have been an unprecedented event.”
Bilbo flushed and tugged absently at the collar of his shirt. “Well, I, uh…” he stuttered. “I mean, it wasn’t-“
“And the talk around the camp is of your other deeds-fighting orcs and saving kings, killing spiders and bringing three races together for battle. I had no idea Halflings were so courageous. I thought they mostly stayed in their holes and ate and smoked until they grew fat.” The elf’s voice was light and teasing, smile bright.
“Well most do,” Bilbo sighed. “And I’d like to get back to that life as soon as I can.” He grew quiet after he said this, fingers idly tracing just underneath the collar of shirt.
The elf prince’s words reminded him too much of a similar conversation, just a little over a fortnight ago.
When the dwarves entered the large hall where Smaug had gathered all the treasure, Bilbo’s companions went mad with glee: running forward to dig through the piles, donning intricately made rings and jeweled necklaces, filling silver goblets with gold coins and precious gems. But not Thorin. Thorin was calm. He stood at the entrance to the room and looked around him, eyes devouring every bit of what he had reclaimed. Bilbo wasn’t sure he’d move from that spot at all until the dwarf suddenly strode forward, crossing the hall in large, determined steps. He stopped right in front of large pillar, reaching down to the bottom and pulling something up that was mostly buried under the gold. The rest of the dwarves fell silent as he held it up.
It was a shirt. Or at least, Bilbo thought it was a shirt. As Thorin raised it up the light caught on it and it shined and glimmered brighter than anything else in the hall.
“Mithril…” Dwalin murmured, voice awed.
Thorin’s eyes locked briefly with Dwalin’s before turning Bilbo. Slowly, he made his way to the hobbit. “Here,” he said gruffly, holding the shirt out to him. “This is for you.” Now that it was closer Bilbo could see that it wasn’t a shirt, but chainmail made from fine, tiny silver links.
A little uncomfortable with the way the other dwarves were staring at them, that awed look still on their faces, Bilbo shook his head. “Oh no, I couldn’t.”
“This, Master Hobbit is Mithril.” Thorin shook the mail, the chains clinking together to make a light, musical sound. “You will find no stronger metal in all of Middle Earth. Just the thing for a burglar who insists on launching himself at orcs or fighting spiders or,” Thorin smiled slightly at him, amusement lining voice, “playing riddles with dragons.”
Behind him Kili smothered a laugh.
“But, surely,” Bilbo protested, “one of the others-“
Thorin cut him off, pressing the chainmail into his hand. “It is yours,” he said quietly. Without waiting for an answer he turned around, marching into the hall to explore it further.
Now that the show was over the other dwarves did the same. Kili nudged his brother in the ribs and pointed at the mail in Bilbo’s hands. “I want one of those! Quick,” turned to a gold pile, gesturing for Fili to do the same, “Let’s find one before the others!”
Bilbo stayed put at the entrance, hands curling around the precious gift, the metal already warming in his hands.
Now, Bilbo traced the outline of the Mithril chainmail, feeling the intricate metal work just underneath the layer of his shirt. He wore it during the battle on the slopes of Erebor, and hadn’t taken it off since.
“You are troubled,” Legolas said softly, interrupting the hobbit’s thoughts.
Bilbo dropped his hand. “What? Oh, no. I’m fine,” he denied. “Just a little tired, I suppose, and unable to sleep.” He gazed off into the fire, which had grown so large it was hard to see over it from where he was sitting. “You know, the first time I traveled through these woods it rained for two weeks straight, and we had so little wood we couldn’t make a fire a fourth this size.”
“That doesn’t make for a comfortable journey,” the elf commented.
“No,” Bilbo murmured, “No it didn’t.”
The fires of those nights did not burn yellow and white, like this one. They were small, red and orange and mostly just hot coals, providing little heat and even less light. There was just a enough to light the faces of his companions as they all huddled around it, shoulder to shoulder in an attempt to protect themselves from the rain, and the dark.
It was strange, he thought, that he almost wished to go back to those times.
Beside him Legolas studied the hobbit’s wishful expression. “You must be impatient to get back home.”
Bilbo remembered Fili and Kili: pale and still on the battlefield, thought of Thorin: buried deep in the mountain with the Arkenstone resting on his chest, imagined the great halls of Erebor finished and rebuilt, but with no one from the line of Durin to sit at its throne.
“Yes,” he said quietly, hand once more gong up to trace the thin layer of metal underneath his collar. “I want nothing else now.”