Fic: Beneath the Mountains Music Woke -- Chapter Three, Thorin Oakenshield/Bilbo Baggins
Title: Beneath the Mountains Music Woke -- Chapter Three (also available on AO3)
Author: Emiliana Darling
Fandom: The Hobbit (2012)
Pairing: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Rating: R
Word Count: 6,000 this chapter (17,100 or so overall)
Contains: Angst, slow build romance, misunderstandings, confused emotions, cultural differences, class differences, possessiveness/jealousy, species-ism against elves, geologically improbable hotsprings, potential book spoilers.
Summary: After being rescued by Bilbo, Thorin begins to realize that his feelings for the halfling are more than simple gratitude. But past ills cannot be so easily undone, and the growing need inside him proves difficult to understand or control. And although he might be king in name, a man without land or wealth has little to offer anyone.
Author's Note: At this point, dedicated Tolkien enthusiasts will have noticed the severely altered geography I’ve been using for this story thus far. Beorn’s Hall and the Carrock are, of course, much closer than I’ve made them up to be. For the purpose of pacing and tension, however, I chose to alter the geography for my own purposes. Thank you so much for sticking with me, and for letting me know what you think! Updates (as well as general flailings) are available at my tumblr. :)
--
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three |
The morning after they crossed the Anduin, Gandalf rejoined their party with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes and an extra spring in his step. The old man puffed himself up into some combination of irritated and amused upon his arrival, chiding them for all manner of blunders.
Some of the supposed blunders were legitimate, such as his blustered reprimands at their decision to light a campfire in that particular location. Other blunders, however, such as his extreme annoyance that the company was not already risen and packed by the time that he arrived - before the sun had fully risen and without any warning - were less well-founded.
As soon as everyone was ready enough to leave, Gandalf easily swept forward and began to lead them in a slightly different direction than they had previously been heading. Although Thorin continuously demanded to be informed of their destination, Gandalf blithely refused with a smile on his face all the while. The only answer he gave was to say they were going “to a friend, my lad, to a friend!”, a phrase that he took to repeating every time the question was raised.
Wizards, Thorin thought cantankerously upon being refused for the fifth time, are far more trouble than they are worth. He dropped back a little ways, the secretive air having put him in a thoroughly foul mood.
The entire situation was made even more confusing around an hour into their march, when Gandalf shouted for Bilbo to join him at the head of the party. Thorin felt his eyebrows rise sharply at the seemingly-random demand, turning around to look at Bilbo in surprise. Bilbo seemed as confused as he was, blinking in surprise where he had moments before been conversing lightly with Bombur. He hesitated, grabbed onto his pack straps - and hurried forward to join Gandalf, looking uncertain but willing to help.
A few feet ahead of him, Gandalf spoke to Bilbo just quietly enough that Thorin could hear nothing of their conversation. It was aggravating beyond words, adding to his already sour temperament. He glared in frustration at their backs as they walked, tempted to barge ahead and make another attempt at demanding answers.
The ground grew steeper as they walked, the harsh pace making Thorin’s still-healing wounds ache and throb under his armour. The foliage was thick and the trail unpleasant, and his anger at being excluded from the leading of his own company was enough to keep him stewing unpleasantly all the while.
For a little while, Fili came up alongside him and attempted to provide an obvious but well-intentioned distraction as they walked. It was partially successful: they had a long discussion about the methods for transporting dwarves from the Blue Mountains to Erebor once the mountain had been reclaimed, as well as theorizing about which important dwarves should be made in charge of certain vital areas of rule. Their conversation could not entirely ease his worries, however, with the result that Thorin’s foul mood was still simmering quietly right up until the very moment he crested the hill.
The broad oak trees began to thin, and then part, and as they reached the top of the small hill they were able to see it for the first time. Bilbo’s quiet gasp of delight ahead of him alerted Thorin of some change half a heartbeat before it came into his own view, but the sight was still boggling in its sheer difference from the rest of the landscape.
A great valley lay in front of them, a grand wooden hall nestled in its centre. The hall was surrounded by lush grassy fields and edged by a babbling stream, with a few circular pools beyond that. There was an enormous garden on the hall’s other side, and it was the colours of the garden that shocked Thorin at first: bright and brilliant and so very many, the beds clearly bursting with life even from a distance. There seemed to be a large wooden gate on another end of the enormous clearing that Gandalf had cleverly led them behind, as well as funny little straw-shaped things that might just be bee hives.
But the truly impressive feature was the house itself. It was massive, clearly made from solid wood and doubtless an incredibly staunch guard against enemies. It looked large enough to house their party three times over.
“It is the home of Beorn, a skin-changer,” Gandalf explained, whiskers twitching as he smiled at the hall in obvious pleasure. “There was once a race of such men, who could change their skins as easily as we change clothes. The orcs grew strong, however, and now it is only he that remains.”
He turned to glance at the dwarves, who were staring at the sight ahead of them, before turning his gaze on Thorin specifically. His expression sharpened. “He is not a trusting man, and quick to anger. But he is kind enough if humoured, and I suspect that he will let us stay once he learns of our escapades in the goblin tunnels.”
“It has been long since we have had proper rest,” Thorin agreed haltingly after a pause, dragging his eyes away from the extensive bee hives to return Gandalf’s gaze. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bilbo staring off at the house uncertainly. “But fifteen guests may be seen as too great an imposition if he is as quick to anger as you say.”
“Ah, yes.” Gandalf twinkled merrily, looking a great deal more animated than he had been in quite a long time. “That is where our little burglar comes in.”
“... pardon?” asked Bilbo, his eyes wide in comical unease. Gandalf merely smiled.
--
Fifteen guests would be easy to turn away all at once. Parties of two or three merely looking for some shelter during a long journey, however, would hopefully be more difficult to dismiss. And for all that Thorin protested that going down to the hall in small groups left them vulnerable, the plan seemed to work very well indeed.
They waited at the border of the large oak trees, staggering their entrance in twos and threes that seemed to automatically fall along family lines. Gandalf and Bilbo went first, the halfing nearly scurrying to keep up with Gandalf’s wide steps. They were followed by Balin and Dwalin, then Oin and Gloin ten minutes later. Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur came along after that, followed by Dori, Nori, and Ori and then Fili and Kili a little after. Thorin would go last, a decision that was as aggravating as it was practical: there was no need to thrust the entire nature of their quest on Beorn until Gandalf and Bilbo had sweet-talked him as much as possible.
Waiting alone at the border of Beorn’s lands was maddening, and Thorin paced restlessly for almost the entire time. Even though the house and gardens seemed still and quiet, he could not help but fret over the safety of his companions.
One companion in particular, perhaps. Thorin felt heat rising in his face, then dismissed it as anger. When Gandalf had revealed his desire to use Bilbo as a strategically calming presence, Thorin had very nearly demanded for Gandalf to swear he would not allow Bilbo to come to any harm before Thorin would allow him out of his sight. It was a ridiculous instinct, and Thorin had been able to repress it - but the fact that he had been left behind and had no idea whether or not Bilbo was safe still rankled him badly.
Without even fully realizing, his need to keep track of Bilbo - to have an idea of where he was at all times, to ensure that someone was always with him - had grown into something consuming and impossible to ignore over the past few days. It itched under his skin and gnawed at his thoughts, sometimes even drowning out even the desperation to reclaim Erebor that always thrummed at the back of his mind.
It was frightening, how out of control and powerless Thorin felt against the instincts and impulses that were ever-growing inside him - and the worst of it was that he and Bilbo weren’t even involved. It was all in his head, all in his stupid head, and Thorin understood for the first time why some of the warriors he knew in his youth had hoped they would never find the person to make their heart stir.
It makes you weak, Thorin realized in horror, something deeply uncomfortable clenching in the base of his stomach.
At his sides, Thorin’s hands clenched into fists. He almost wanted to lash out in anger; to strike at the trees around him with axe and sword, to gouge great chunks out of their bark. Something inside of him felt so inexpressibly exhausted at the realization, however, that he couldn’t seem to muster the effort. He unclenched his hands with a concerted effort, letting out a hard breath and leaning against one of the oak trees.
These feelings he was having weren’t just inconvenient: they were dangerous, both to their quest and to his people. Weakness wasn’t something he had ever had the luxury of, and that was more true than ever now. He clenched his eyes shut and gathered himself, shoving it all down and bolstering the walls that kept him stable, kept him sane.
And he could not - would not - let his people down because of his own personal failings. Not now; not when Erebor was so close to their reach.
Resolution hard against his skin, Thorin opened his eyes. He took a deep breath, straightened his back - and began to walk down into the valley and toward the wooden hall.
--
Despite Gandalf’s warnings about the shortness of his temper, Beorn proved to be a surprisingly decent host. Although Thorin quietly tucked himself at Bilbo’s side as soon as he entered the hall, it was quickly apparent that there had been nothing to worry about: Gandalf’s explanations and platitudes had worked wonders, and Bilbo had apparently been sufficiently unintimidating to convince Beorn they posed no threat.
As much as it pained Thorin to admit it, Beorn was so shockingly large that it was almost impossible not to feel like a child next to him. It wasn’t very often that Thorin truly noticed his own height: men and elves were the strangely long and stretched ones, after all, and the compact strength of the dwarves was clearly superior in almost every respect.
Beorn, however, stood taller and broader than any man or elf he had ever seen, with a great black beard and an intimidating demeanour. The contents of the hall were enormous as a result: rough-hewn tables and benches that came up to Thorin’s chest, carvings of bears and boars as big as they were, and even great grey dogs that padded around and seemed to accept their presence as a minor inconvenience.
“You can stay for a few days,” Beorn announced once all of them were gathered, his great thick arms crossed as he surveyed them. His voice was a deep and booming. “Don’t go outside at night lest you bring the goblins down on us all. Rest assured, you’ll be fed and watered and well-supplied when you leave.”
They ate better that night than they had since Rivendell: roasted deer that made grease run down into their beards, potatoes and carrots cooked in butter and rosemary, crusty bread slathered with honey. There were great pitchers of ale and sweet apple cider, too, and all of the food was spread out across the great table in bowls and platters so massive it took two of them to lift each one.
They ate with such enthusiasm that it made Beorn laugh out loud, none of them willing to slow down to allow for conversation. Gandalf attempted amused aloofness, but smoked his pipe and drank his cider with obvious pleasure. Bombur ate three times what should have been appropriate as a guest, and to Thorin’s shock Bilbo wasn’t far behind him. Dori seemed to share his surprise.
“How much can you possibly fit into that little body of yours, Master Baggins?” Dori asked, expression fluctuating between being dismayed and impressed. Dori himself had been attempting to show restraint throughout the entire meal, and had only partially succeeded. “You didn’t eat like this when we gathered in your hobbit hole, I’ll say that much.”
Mouth full of potatoes, Bilbo let out a choked noise of laughter. He swallowed hugely, practically glowing with pleasure at the meal in front of him.
“Just because hobbits don’t break into strangers’ pantries and eat them out of house and home doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate food,” he chastised, appearing to huff himself up into some kind of lecture - before groaning in pure bliss as another platter of honeyed bread was placed on the table. “It’s been weeks since I’ve had honey,” said Bilbo reverently, plucking up another slice.
His eyes nearly rolled back into his head when he bit into it, and a helpless noise of pleasure escaped his throat at the taste. Thorin looked away hastily at the sound, steadfastly trying to ignore the look Balin gave him across the table.
Once they were all too full to even consider eating more Gloin and Bifur helped to clear the plates away. Beorn asked Fili and Kili to help him prepare the beds, and the three of them spent a considerable amount of time gathering straw and woolen blankets to pile at one end of the hallway.
Spirits much improved from the hearty meal and the warmth of the fire blazing in the hearth, Thorin sat with Dwalin and Beorn at the great table long after the rest of them wandered over to the makeshift bed. They spoke of Mirkwood, which loomed so close to Beorn’s home; of approximate timelines for their stay, of what supplies they might need to take with them, of the best way to make it through the forest without catching the attention of the Elvenking.
When Beorn excused himself for a few minutes to tend to the fire, however, Thorin’s mind began to wander. His eyes were scouting around the hall for that tell-tale mop of curls before he even registered what he was looking for, eyes skimming over the grey shape of Gandalf dozing in the corner. When he did finally catch sight of Bilbo, however, it felt as though the bottom fell out of his stomach.
Bilbo and Bofur were huddled together in the hall’s far corner. Although they sat on top of the makeshift bed, the two of them sat a considerable distance from where the rest of the party was sleeping or quietly conversing. They were talking in whispers, leaning in close in a way that marked the conversation as distinctly private.
While Bofur’s face was obscured by the flaps of his hat, the anxiously intense expression on Bilbo’s face was enough to make something awful twist in Thorin’s gut. For a second, Bilbo glanced up in Thorin’s direction - before looking away again with such speed that it almost made Thorin feel physically ill.
He grunted when Dwalin elbowed him in the side, completely unable to tear his eyes off the pair of them.
“You’re a king, Thorin,” said Dwalin insistently, seeming to know exactly what he was thinking. He could hear the scoff in Dwalin’s voice, as though Thorin’s foolishness was physically hurting him. “He’s a toymaker.”
The words were blunt, but there was no real contempt to them. Thorin knew that Dwalin had no disrespect for common folk: he had spent much of his life surrounded by warriors as the leader of Erebor’s guard, and was far more likely to judge a man by his strength in battle than by his profession.
Still, though, to him the choice was obvious: Thorin was a king, therefore he should get what he wanted. He might not have gold or gifts at the moment, but his position was so exponentially higher than Bofur’s that the mere promise of them should be enough to win Bilbo’s heart. In Dwalin’s mind, there was no real reason why Thorin shouldn’t use the full force of his rank to prove exactly who the halfling belonged to.
But Bilbo didn’t belong to him, no matter what Thorin might want. And the fact that Bofur was so open with his friendliness - that he could be so kindly and patient and loving with everyone, as though something like that was easy - made Thorin hate him just a little bit. Made him think that, toymaker or not, Bofur might have more to offer Bilbo than he ever could.
“Enough,” Thorin grunted as Beorn returned, and Dwalin sent him a pained expression before nodding.
They talked late into the night. Thorin drank steadily from his oversized mug, forcing himself not to look over at the corner until everyone but the three of them was sound asleep.
--
The sound of footsteps crunching on straw was enough to send Thorin jerking out of sleep, eyes flying open and his sword hand tense just in case. Someone was moving across the makeshift bed, trying to be quiet but not quite succeeding, and Thorin couldn’t see them from his position. Adrenaline burst behind his eyes for a few moments, his heart pounding in his chest, before the footsteps stopped and a familiar voice began to whisper.
“Hey,” whispered Fili, his voice coming from somewhere off to his left, and Thorin would know that voice anywhere. The sun was barely risen, and Thorin’s tendency to jolt awake at the slightest noise had already resulted in him waking twice in the middle of the night: once at the sudden sound of dogs barking, and once at a great roar that had turned out to be nothing more than Beorn in his great bear form.
Fortunately, he also possessed a soldier’s ability to sleep anywhere at any time. He let himself relax, eyes falling closed again.
There was a soft thumping sound, as though Fili was poking someone awake. “Hey, Bilbo!” he whispered, voice low but determined. “Wake up!”
That made Thorin wake up properly again. He stilled, eyes closed, listening to the exchange.
“Mmm?” came Bilbo’s voice, sleep-slurred and confused, and Thorin could practically see him in his mind’s eye; blankets pulled up over half his face with his legs curled up tight, rumpled curls barely peeking out. There were more shifting noises. “Whas’a’matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter,” said Fili softly, a grin in his voice. “Except that last night’s feast distracted us from an important daily ritual. Get up and get your sword. Kili and I will meet you outside.”
There was a quiet groan from Bilbo, which made the smallest smile tug at the corners of Thorin’s lips against his will. “It’s - the sun isn’t even fully up yet,” Bilbo hissed, sounding resigned but profoundly unimpressed. “It’s not decent.”
“Definitely not. See you outside!” Fili whispered cheerily, followed by the soft footsteps as he walked away. Bilbo grumbled quietly to himself, but the sound of rustling blankets and straw seemed to indicate that he was getting up anyways.
After he was gone, Thorin fell back to sleep with a smile still on his lips.
--
Once the sun had risen a little higher in the air, however, there was no more excuse to stay sleeping.
After Thorin had eaten his fill from the enormous pot of porridge Beorn had left on the table, he decided that the morning would be best spent focusing on getting both himself and his attire clean. They would spend the afternoon parceling out supplies for their journey: at the moment he neither felt nor smelled particularly kingly, and it might be his last chance to properly rectify that for a long while.
He gathered the necessary supplies easily enough: a pair of light linen pants that Nori had somehow acquired and Thorin had cut short enough to fit, as well as a large wooden basin, a bar of soap, and a long length of rope from Beorn’s household. Once he had everything, Thorin passed the others in their various states of rest and conversation and headed outside to the stream.
It was a bright day, but the coolness of the air was a pleasant surprise against his skin after the long hours spent inside. There were signs of life everywhere: grey dogs wandering about the open space, birds in the trees, the shapes of the bee hives some distance away. Thorin walked through the tall grass, eyes trained on a large flat rock next to the stream’s edge. It would do nicely as a place to clean his clothes, and he would move on to one of the pools he’d seen earlier to clean himself once this was done.
Although there had been a time when washing his own clothes might have seemed unbecoming of his position, long years on the road and in the towns of men had made Thorin more than proficient at it. He dipped the basin into the running water of the stream, set it down by the rock, and then efficiently stripped his many heavy layers of clothing - fur cloak, outer robe, overshirt, trousers, underclothes as well as all of his assorted leather and chainmail -before slipping on the light linen trousers and getting to work.
There had been little opportunity for giving anything cloth a proper clean during the journey, and Thorin sat on the rock and ruthlessly used soap, water, and brute force to take out as much blood, dirt, and muck as possible.
It took over an hour and several basins of water before everything was decently scoured. It was a mindless task, but a useful one, and before long everything he owned was wrung out and hanging from the rope he had tied between two trees.
Soapy and cold and everything but his hands and arms still filthy, he headed back across the fields. The pools were easy enough to find: although they were located a little ways away from Beorn’s cabin, the large rocks surrounding them stood out from a great distance. The sounds of merriment and splashing drifted over from quite a distance, and as he approached he could see that Gloin, Nori, Dori, and Bifur were already submerged in the water.
As Thorin came even closer, the realization that there was steam rising from the water almost made him groan out loud. Bifur spotted him first, shouting a greeting in Khuzdul and making the others turn.
“Thorin!” cried Nori upon seeing him, looking quite unrecognizable with his hair out of its elaborate style. Instead, it was a wet mass of red around his shoulders. “Come in and join us, the water’s more than fine.”
“Hot springs,” said Thorin, barely managing to believe it. The steam rising from the water only did a little to obscure his companions’ nakedness, but he did not mind. Long years of living and fighting alongside his kin had made him utterly unselfconscious about nudity, whether it be his own or that of others. He shook his head. “I cannot recall the last time I enjoyed such a luxury.”
“Aren’t they divine?” sighed Dori, sinking down so that his ears just barely poked out. He looked happier than Thorin had seen him in a long while.
Without another thought, Thorin shucked the linen pants and stepped into the hot water. The heat of it was a shock against his skin, and his still-healing wounds stung the slightest bit at contact. He sunk right down until he was submerged up to his sternum, muscles practically singing with relief, taking a moment to duck his head underwater to ensure that his hair got properly wet. When he breached the surface he could barely hold back a sigh of pleasure. He breathed in deep through his nose, letting his eyes close, enjoying the damp heat of the air.
“Do any of you remember the public hot springs in Erebor?” came Gloin’s voice, sounding languorous and very much relaxed. “Now that was a decent establishment.”
At the mention of Erebor as it used to be, Thorin felt something inside him tense up - but this was a good memory. It stung in the way that rubbing salve over a wound stings: still painful, but with the knowledge that it was working toward something worthwhile. Hearing his companions exchange memories of Erebor was fairly rare, and it made him even more determined to reclaim their home.
“The place by the rat-catcher’s shop?” asked Nori incredulously, and Thorin opened heavy eyes and raised an eyebrow. Dori and Nori had twin looks of scepticism on their faces.
At the other end of the pool, Gloin scowled dismissivly. “Not that place, heavens. Little more than a hive of disease, and in that neighbourhood. No, I mean the one by the old library. Marvelous hot springs. My wife and I used to go there fairly regularly,” he said, sounding proud.
Across from him, Bifur snickered and made a comment about their Company being a congregation of tamed cats and sewer rats. Gloin looked a little abashed, but laughed along with everyone else.
They were still discussing the merits of Erebor’s former bathing houses when Thorin spotted three figures coming towards them, the one lagging behind decidedly shorter than the others. He swallowed heavily.
“Hot springs!” cried Kili in delight when they got a bit closer, a look of complete ecstasy on his sweaty face. He, Fili, and Bilbo all still had swords clutched in their hands, obviously having come straight from practice. Kili was already clumsily kicking off his boots and tugging at his jerkin, tossing his sword onto a patch of grass in his eagerness. “Oh, it’s been ages. I probably smell like a pony’s rear end right about now.”
“Charming as ever,” Fili laughed, but he was already unlacing his own tunic with a grin. Behind him, however, Bilbo was approaching with an increasingly pained expression on his face. Thorin’s eyes narrowed.
“Did you injure yourself during training?” he asked sharply, eyes scanning over the hobbit in an attempt to locate any scratches or cuts. Bilbo blinked, his gaze refocusing. He was pink-faced from sword practice.
“Pardon?” Bilbo asked vaguely, then gave his head a firm shake. He appeared to be attempting to look anywhere but at the dwarves in the water, gaze pointed unnecessarily high. This had the effect of making him address the words to a nearby tree instead of to Thorin himself. Thorin frowned, wondering if hot springs were uncommon in the Shire. “I -no. Not injured at all.” There was a beat. “I am getting rather hungry, though. Time for an early lunch, I think. I’ll just -”
The rest of his sentence was cut off by two loud groans as Fili and Kili waded into the water, twin looks of bliss on their faces.
“Oh, it’s wonderful,” sighed Fili, dunking his whole head underwater before shaking his hair out like a dog. Kili laughed in delight, and shortly the two of them were settling against the edges. “Bilbo, don’t be a curmudgeon! Your swordplay is coming along nicely; you deserve to give yourself a reward.”
The rest of the dwarves called out their agreement, beckoning Bilbo over. Thorin remained deliberately silent, lips pressed tight together. He tried very hard not to think about what Bilbo would look like unbuttoning his clothes, but his mind was already running slightly wild with the image.
Thorin had seen Bilbo in partial stages of undress over the course of their journey - it was hard not to, considering the close quarters they all shared on the road - but it would be nothing compared to seeing him stripped bare and soaking wet, the water warm against his skin. He wondered if his pale skin would turn pink from the heat of it. Thorin shifted uneasily at the thought, allowing himself to sink a bit lower into the water.
“I’m fine, really,” Bilbo insisted, taking a step back. “Honestly. There are books in the hall I want to look at while there’s still light, and I can always come back a bit later -”
“Just your feet, then,” cajoled Kili, giving Bilbo a plaintiff look that he was almost too old to pull off. Thorin could remember that same expression on a much younger face. “Come on, Bilbo. You walk around on those things all day without boots; they must get sore. Just stay for a few minutes.”
“I...” Bilbo hesitated, mouth twisted up and face rumpled with some unknown emotion. “All right, yes, fine,” he finally conceded, sounding pained. Nori and Bifur both cheered, and Kili let out a little shout of victory. Thorin shoved away the twinge of disappointment at not seeing Bilbo undressed, feeling ashamed of himself for even thinking about it.
There was a pause as Bilbo rolled up his trousers even higher, fussily making sure they were both the same length. Thorin felt his gaze lowering to land on Bilbo’s feet, large and covered in a great deal of light-coloured hair. He couldn’t help but wonder if they were ticklish, or if constant exposure made the soles too thick to feel much. He wondered if Bilbo enjoyed people touching them, or if touching a hobbit’s feet was somehow taboo.
Finally, Bilbo sat himself down in between Gloin and Nori. He dipped his feet in cautiously, but the little exhale of pleasure he let out when they were all the way underwater had Fili and Kili practically beaming. Thorin felt a smile tugging at his own lips, as well. They all sat for a little while, enjoying the soothing heat.
“What books are you eager to read, Mister Bilbo?” asked Dori after a moment. At Bilbo’s blank look, he elaborated. “The ones in the hall you want to take a look at?”
“Oh!” said Bilbo, giving a little shrug. He swished his feet back and forth in the water as he spoke. “Beorn’s library is small and his books are... rather oversized, but there are a few interesting ones about gardening and geography I was hoping to look at. They’re mostly in the common tongue or Elvish, which is nice.”
All at once, Thorin felt badly wrong-footed. “You read Elvish?” he asked, surprise and displeasure welling up hard within him. He imagined Bilbo tucked up in Bag-End, eagerly learning that squiggly mess of an alphabet. The thought made him feel profoundly irritated.
Bilbo frowned, a wrinkle appearing on his forehead. “I do,” he said, sounding cautious.
“Do all hobbits read Elvish?” Thorin asked insistently, to which Bilbo shook his head.
“Hardly any, no. Most of them don’t see the point.”
“There isn’t one,” said Thorin conclusively, feeling rather smug, to which Bilbo let out an indignant little splutter.
“There most certainly is a point,” Bilbo persisted, demeanour taking on the tone of someone who had had this debate many times before. Thorin thought he heard Kili smother a giggle, but he couldn’t be sure. “Rivendell is close to the Shire, I’ll have you remember. There are all sorts of practical reasons that one might learn the language, and I know I always thought of going there. My Elvish might not be perfect, but -”
“If you could keep learning it now, would you?” Thorin demanded, the irrational anger swelling up even greater inside him. Bilbo gave him an obstinate look in response, straightening his back and throwing back his shoulders.
“I most certainly would,” said Bilbo, to which Thorin threw up his arms in frustration. The movement sent water droplets flying.
“That’s ridiculous, though!” Thorin snarled, the idea of a younger Bilbo all aflutter to go to Rivendell and meet the elves so foul it almost made him feel physically sick. “Why would you waste all that time and energy when you could be learning Khuzdul instead?”
And that idea - of Bilbo learning Khuzdul, speaking Khuzdul - was so perfect that Thorin was shocked he hadn’t thought of it earlier. Once they reclaimed the Lonely Mountain, trying to keep Bilbo in a place where he didn’t even speak the main language would surely be a fool’s task. If he could speak Khuzdul, Bilbo would be able to preside over infinitely more tasks in the reconstruction: it would show respect for their culture, and his knowledge of the language would be another tie to bind them together. It would be better than Elvish, he thought sourly, stomach churning at the thought.
Bolstering himself, Thorin fully expected another rapid-fire contestation; for the question to get Bilbo more worked up than ever. He almost wanted a fight, to have a reason to pay attention to Bilbo other than the damnable thoughts he couldn’t speak out loud.
It seemed to have the complete opposite effect, however. Instead of growing more upset, Bilbo sat with his mouth slightly agape as he blinked in surprise. Around them, none of the other dwarves spoke. There was complete silence for a few long, still moments.
“... Khuzdul is a secret language,” said Bilbo eventually, sounding uncertain. Thorin snorted.
“For dwarves and their closest allies, yes. Do you think me a simpleton?” He scoffed, giving Bilbo a hard look. “You did not answer my question.”
For the first time since arriving at the hot springs, Bilbo lowered his gaze and looked Thorin straight in the eyes. Thorin looked right back, prepared to clash over the issue indefinitely if necessary. After a long pause, however, Bilbo actually nodded.
“All right,” he said simply, the expression on his face unreadable. He gave a little shrug. “Khuzdul it is, then.”
Astonished at the easy victory, Thorin blinked. Around them, everyone else was being so steadfastly silent that the lack of noise rang loudly in the air. “You don’t intend to fight me about this?”
There was the briefest of pauses before Bilbo cocked his head to one side, all of the fight seeming to have leached out of him. “No,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think I will.”
“Good,” said Thorin unnecessarily, eyebrows furrowing. Pent-up energy was buzzing inside of him, ready to be unleashed, but there didn’t seem much else to say. “I’ll instruct Ori to begin giving you lessons in both spoken aglâb and cirth script, as well the basics of iglishmêk. That should suffice for a start.”
“All right,” said Bilbo after a second, before pausing. No one else spoke. Instead of upset, however, Bilbo seemed quietly thoughtful. “I’m... going to go back to the hall now, I think,” he said, scooting back and slowly standing. His feet left little twin puddles of water on the rock. He hesitated. “Thank you for the soak.”
“You’re welcome,” said Thorin, the words awkward and stilted, even though he had done nothing in particular to earn Bilbo’s thanks.
His companions wished the halfling farewell before returning to their conversation, their words somehow more reserved than before, but Thorin didn’t join them. Instead, he watched as Bilbo turned and walked back toward Beorn’s home, growing smaller and smaller as he walked further away.
But there were supplies to be arranged and routes through Mirkwood to debate, and he didn’t have time to puzzle over such strange behaviour. Thorin excused himself before long as well, determined to focus on the matter at hand.
He had to try very hard indeed to get that unknowable expression out of his mind.
--
Chapter Four Coming Soon
Author: Emiliana Darling
Fandom: The Hobbit (2012)
Pairing: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Rating: R
Word Count: 6,000 this chapter (17,100 or so overall)
Contains: Angst, slow build romance, misunderstandings, confused emotions, cultural differences, class differences, possessiveness/jealousy, species-ism against elves, geologically improbable hotsprings, potential book spoilers.
Summary: After being rescued by Bilbo, Thorin begins to realize that his feelings for the halfling are more than simple gratitude. But past ills cannot be so easily undone, and the growing need inside him proves difficult to understand or control. And although he might be king in name, a man without land or wealth has little to offer anyone.
Author's Note: At this point, dedicated Tolkien enthusiasts will have noticed the severely altered geography I’ve been using for this story thus far. Beorn’s Hall and the Carrock are, of course, much closer than I’ve made them up to be. For the purpose of pacing and tension, however, I chose to alter the geography for my own purposes. Thank you so much for sticking with me, and for letting me know what you think! Updates (as well as general flailings) are available at my tumblr. :)
--
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three |
The morning after they crossed the Anduin, Gandalf rejoined their party with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes and an extra spring in his step. The old man puffed himself up into some combination of irritated and amused upon his arrival, chiding them for all manner of blunders.
Some of the supposed blunders were legitimate, such as his blustered reprimands at their decision to light a campfire in that particular location. Other blunders, however, such as his extreme annoyance that the company was not already risen and packed by the time that he arrived - before the sun had fully risen and without any warning - were less well-founded.
As soon as everyone was ready enough to leave, Gandalf easily swept forward and began to lead them in a slightly different direction than they had previously been heading. Although Thorin continuously demanded to be informed of their destination, Gandalf blithely refused with a smile on his face all the while. The only answer he gave was to say they were going “to a friend, my lad, to a friend!”, a phrase that he took to repeating every time the question was raised.
Wizards, Thorin thought cantankerously upon being refused for the fifth time, are far more trouble than they are worth. He dropped back a little ways, the secretive air having put him in a thoroughly foul mood.
The entire situation was made even more confusing around an hour into their march, when Gandalf shouted for Bilbo to join him at the head of the party. Thorin felt his eyebrows rise sharply at the seemingly-random demand, turning around to look at Bilbo in surprise. Bilbo seemed as confused as he was, blinking in surprise where he had moments before been conversing lightly with Bombur. He hesitated, grabbed onto his pack straps - and hurried forward to join Gandalf, looking uncertain but willing to help.
A few feet ahead of him, Gandalf spoke to Bilbo just quietly enough that Thorin could hear nothing of their conversation. It was aggravating beyond words, adding to his already sour temperament. He glared in frustration at their backs as they walked, tempted to barge ahead and make another attempt at demanding answers.
The ground grew steeper as they walked, the harsh pace making Thorin’s still-healing wounds ache and throb under his armour. The foliage was thick and the trail unpleasant, and his anger at being excluded from the leading of his own company was enough to keep him stewing unpleasantly all the while.
For a little while, Fili came up alongside him and attempted to provide an obvious but well-intentioned distraction as they walked. It was partially successful: they had a long discussion about the methods for transporting dwarves from the Blue Mountains to Erebor once the mountain had been reclaimed, as well as theorizing about which important dwarves should be made in charge of certain vital areas of rule. Their conversation could not entirely ease his worries, however, with the result that Thorin’s foul mood was still simmering quietly right up until the very moment he crested the hill.
The broad oak trees began to thin, and then part, and as they reached the top of the small hill they were able to see it for the first time. Bilbo’s quiet gasp of delight ahead of him alerted Thorin of some change half a heartbeat before it came into his own view, but the sight was still boggling in its sheer difference from the rest of the landscape.
A great valley lay in front of them, a grand wooden hall nestled in its centre. The hall was surrounded by lush grassy fields and edged by a babbling stream, with a few circular pools beyond that. There was an enormous garden on the hall’s other side, and it was the colours of the garden that shocked Thorin at first: bright and brilliant and so very many, the beds clearly bursting with life even from a distance. There seemed to be a large wooden gate on another end of the enormous clearing that Gandalf had cleverly led them behind, as well as funny little straw-shaped things that might just be bee hives.
But the truly impressive feature was the house itself. It was massive, clearly made from solid wood and doubtless an incredibly staunch guard against enemies. It looked large enough to house their party three times over.
“It is the home of Beorn, a skin-changer,” Gandalf explained, whiskers twitching as he smiled at the hall in obvious pleasure. “There was once a race of such men, who could change their skins as easily as we change clothes. The orcs grew strong, however, and now it is only he that remains.”
He turned to glance at the dwarves, who were staring at the sight ahead of them, before turning his gaze on Thorin specifically. His expression sharpened. “He is not a trusting man, and quick to anger. But he is kind enough if humoured, and I suspect that he will let us stay once he learns of our escapades in the goblin tunnels.”
“It has been long since we have had proper rest,” Thorin agreed haltingly after a pause, dragging his eyes away from the extensive bee hives to return Gandalf’s gaze. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bilbo staring off at the house uncertainly. “But fifteen guests may be seen as too great an imposition if he is as quick to anger as you say.”
“Ah, yes.” Gandalf twinkled merrily, looking a great deal more animated than he had been in quite a long time. “That is where our little burglar comes in.”
“... pardon?” asked Bilbo, his eyes wide in comical unease. Gandalf merely smiled.
--
Fifteen guests would be easy to turn away all at once. Parties of two or three merely looking for some shelter during a long journey, however, would hopefully be more difficult to dismiss. And for all that Thorin protested that going down to the hall in small groups left them vulnerable, the plan seemed to work very well indeed.
They waited at the border of the large oak trees, staggering their entrance in twos and threes that seemed to automatically fall along family lines. Gandalf and Bilbo went first, the halfing nearly scurrying to keep up with Gandalf’s wide steps. They were followed by Balin and Dwalin, then Oin and Gloin ten minutes later. Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur came along after that, followed by Dori, Nori, and Ori and then Fili and Kili a little after. Thorin would go last, a decision that was as aggravating as it was practical: there was no need to thrust the entire nature of their quest on Beorn until Gandalf and Bilbo had sweet-talked him as much as possible.
Waiting alone at the border of Beorn’s lands was maddening, and Thorin paced restlessly for almost the entire time. Even though the house and gardens seemed still and quiet, he could not help but fret over the safety of his companions.
One companion in particular, perhaps. Thorin felt heat rising in his face, then dismissed it as anger. When Gandalf had revealed his desire to use Bilbo as a strategically calming presence, Thorin had very nearly demanded for Gandalf to swear he would not allow Bilbo to come to any harm before Thorin would allow him out of his sight. It was a ridiculous instinct, and Thorin had been able to repress it - but the fact that he had been left behind and had no idea whether or not Bilbo was safe still rankled him badly.
Without even fully realizing, his need to keep track of Bilbo - to have an idea of where he was at all times, to ensure that someone was always with him - had grown into something consuming and impossible to ignore over the past few days. It itched under his skin and gnawed at his thoughts, sometimes even drowning out even the desperation to reclaim Erebor that always thrummed at the back of his mind.
It was frightening, how out of control and powerless Thorin felt against the instincts and impulses that were ever-growing inside him - and the worst of it was that he and Bilbo weren’t even involved. It was all in his head, all in his stupid head, and Thorin understood for the first time why some of the warriors he knew in his youth had hoped they would never find the person to make their heart stir.
It makes you weak, Thorin realized in horror, something deeply uncomfortable clenching in the base of his stomach.
At his sides, Thorin’s hands clenched into fists. He almost wanted to lash out in anger; to strike at the trees around him with axe and sword, to gouge great chunks out of their bark. Something inside of him felt so inexpressibly exhausted at the realization, however, that he couldn’t seem to muster the effort. He unclenched his hands with a concerted effort, letting out a hard breath and leaning against one of the oak trees.
These feelings he was having weren’t just inconvenient: they were dangerous, both to their quest and to his people. Weakness wasn’t something he had ever had the luxury of, and that was more true than ever now. He clenched his eyes shut and gathered himself, shoving it all down and bolstering the walls that kept him stable, kept him sane.
And he could not - would not - let his people down because of his own personal failings. Not now; not when Erebor was so close to their reach.
Resolution hard against his skin, Thorin opened his eyes. He took a deep breath, straightened his back - and began to walk down into the valley and toward the wooden hall.
--
Despite Gandalf’s warnings about the shortness of his temper, Beorn proved to be a surprisingly decent host. Although Thorin quietly tucked himself at Bilbo’s side as soon as he entered the hall, it was quickly apparent that there had been nothing to worry about: Gandalf’s explanations and platitudes had worked wonders, and Bilbo had apparently been sufficiently unintimidating to convince Beorn they posed no threat.
As much as it pained Thorin to admit it, Beorn was so shockingly large that it was almost impossible not to feel like a child next to him. It wasn’t very often that Thorin truly noticed his own height: men and elves were the strangely long and stretched ones, after all, and the compact strength of the dwarves was clearly superior in almost every respect.
Beorn, however, stood taller and broader than any man or elf he had ever seen, with a great black beard and an intimidating demeanour. The contents of the hall were enormous as a result: rough-hewn tables and benches that came up to Thorin’s chest, carvings of bears and boars as big as they were, and even great grey dogs that padded around and seemed to accept their presence as a minor inconvenience.
“You can stay for a few days,” Beorn announced once all of them were gathered, his great thick arms crossed as he surveyed them. His voice was a deep and booming. “Don’t go outside at night lest you bring the goblins down on us all. Rest assured, you’ll be fed and watered and well-supplied when you leave.”
They ate better that night than they had since Rivendell: roasted deer that made grease run down into their beards, potatoes and carrots cooked in butter and rosemary, crusty bread slathered with honey. There were great pitchers of ale and sweet apple cider, too, and all of the food was spread out across the great table in bowls and platters so massive it took two of them to lift each one.
They ate with such enthusiasm that it made Beorn laugh out loud, none of them willing to slow down to allow for conversation. Gandalf attempted amused aloofness, but smoked his pipe and drank his cider with obvious pleasure. Bombur ate three times what should have been appropriate as a guest, and to Thorin’s shock Bilbo wasn’t far behind him. Dori seemed to share his surprise.
“How much can you possibly fit into that little body of yours, Master Baggins?” Dori asked, expression fluctuating between being dismayed and impressed. Dori himself had been attempting to show restraint throughout the entire meal, and had only partially succeeded. “You didn’t eat like this when we gathered in your hobbit hole, I’ll say that much.”
Mouth full of potatoes, Bilbo let out a choked noise of laughter. He swallowed hugely, practically glowing with pleasure at the meal in front of him.
“Just because hobbits don’t break into strangers’ pantries and eat them out of house and home doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate food,” he chastised, appearing to huff himself up into some kind of lecture - before groaning in pure bliss as another platter of honeyed bread was placed on the table. “It’s been weeks since I’ve had honey,” said Bilbo reverently, plucking up another slice.
His eyes nearly rolled back into his head when he bit into it, and a helpless noise of pleasure escaped his throat at the taste. Thorin looked away hastily at the sound, steadfastly trying to ignore the look Balin gave him across the table.
Once they were all too full to even consider eating more Gloin and Bifur helped to clear the plates away. Beorn asked Fili and Kili to help him prepare the beds, and the three of them spent a considerable amount of time gathering straw and woolen blankets to pile at one end of the hallway.
Spirits much improved from the hearty meal and the warmth of the fire blazing in the hearth, Thorin sat with Dwalin and Beorn at the great table long after the rest of them wandered over to the makeshift bed. They spoke of Mirkwood, which loomed so close to Beorn’s home; of approximate timelines for their stay, of what supplies they might need to take with them, of the best way to make it through the forest without catching the attention of the Elvenking.
When Beorn excused himself for a few minutes to tend to the fire, however, Thorin’s mind began to wander. His eyes were scouting around the hall for that tell-tale mop of curls before he even registered what he was looking for, eyes skimming over the grey shape of Gandalf dozing in the corner. When he did finally catch sight of Bilbo, however, it felt as though the bottom fell out of his stomach.
Bilbo and Bofur were huddled together in the hall’s far corner. Although they sat on top of the makeshift bed, the two of them sat a considerable distance from where the rest of the party was sleeping or quietly conversing. They were talking in whispers, leaning in close in a way that marked the conversation as distinctly private.
While Bofur’s face was obscured by the flaps of his hat, the anxiously intense expression on Bilbo’s face was enough to make something awful twist in Thorin’s gut. For a second, Bilbo glanced up in Thorin’s direction - before looking away again with such speed that it almost made Thorin feel physically ill.
He grunted when Dwalin elbowed him in the side, completely unable to tear his eyes off the pair of them.
“You’re a king, Thorin,” said Dwalin insistently, seeming to know exactly what he was thinking. He could hear the scoff in Dwalin’s voice, as though Thorin’s foolishness was physically hurting him. “He’s a toymaker.”
The words were blunt, but there was no real contempt to them. Thorin knew that Dwalin had no disrespect for common folk: he had spent much of his life surrounded by warriors as the leader of Erebor’s guard, and was far more likely to judge a man by his strength in battle than by his profession.
Still, though, to him the choice was obvious: Thorin was a king, therefore he should get what he wanted. He might not have gold or gifts at the moment, but his position was so exponentially higher than Bofur’s that the mere promise of them should be enough to win Bilbo’s heart. In Dwalin’s mind, there was no real reason why Thorin shouldn’t use the full force of his rank to prove exactly who the halfling belonged to.
But Bilbo didn’t belong to him, no matter what Thorin might want. And the fact that Bofur was so open with his friendliness - that he could be so kindly and patient and loving with everyone, as though something like that was easy - made Thorin hate him just a little bit. Made him think that, toymaker or not, Bofur might have more to offer Bilbo than he ever could.
“Enough,” Thorin grunted as Beorn returned, and Dwalin sent him a pained expression before nodding.
They talked late into the night. Thorin drank steadily from his oversized mug, forcing himself not to look over at the corner until everyone but the three of them was sound asleep.
--
The sound of footsteps crunching on straw was enough to send Thorin jerking out of sleep, eyes flying open and his sword hand tense just in case. Someone was moving across the makeshift bed, trying to be quiet but not quite succeeding, and Thorin couldn’t see them from his position. Adrenaline burst behind his eyes for a few moments, his heart pounding in his chest, before the footsteps stopped and a familiar voice began to whisper.
“Hey,” whispered Fili, his voice coming from somewhere off to his left, and Thorin would know that voice anywhere. The sun was barely risen, and Thorin’s tendency to jolt awake at the slightest noise had already resulted in him waking twice in the middle of the night: once at the sudden sound of dogs barking, and once at a great roar that had turned out to be nothing more than Beorn in his great bear form.
Fortunately, he also possessed a soldier’s ability to sleep anywhere at any time. He let himself relax, eyes falling closed again.
There was a soft thumping sound, as though Fili was poking someone awake. “Hey, Bilbo!” he whispered, voice low but determined. “Wake up!”
That made Thorin wake up properly again. He stilled, eyes closed, listening to the exchange.
“Mmm?” came Bilbo’s voice, sleep-slurred and confused, and Thorin could practically see him in his mind’s eye; blankets pulled up over half his face with his legs curled up tight, rumpled curls barely peeking out. There were more shifting noises. “Whas’a’matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter,” said Fili softly, a grin in his voice. “Except that last night’s feast distracted us from an important daily ritual. Get up and get your sword. Kili and I will meet you outside.”
There was a quiet groan from Bilbo, which made the smallest smile tug at the corners of Thorin’s lips against his will. “It’s - the sun isn’t even fully up yet,” Bilbo hissed, sounding resigned but profoundly unimpressed. “It’s not decent.”
“Definitely not. See you outside!” Fili whispered cheerily, followed by the soft footsteps as he walked away. Bilbo grumbled quietly to himself, but the sound of rustling blankets and straw seemed to indicate that he was getting up anyways.
After he was gone, Thorin fell back to sleep with a smile still on his lips.
--
Once the sun had risen a little higher in the air, however, there was no more excuse to stay sleeping.
After Thorin had eaten his fill from the enormous pot of porridge Beorn had left on the table, he decided that the morning would be best spent focusing on getting both himself and his attire clean. They would spend the afternoon parceling out supplies for their journey: at the moment he neither felt nor smelled particularly kingly, and it might be his last chance to properly rectify that for a long while.
He gathered the necessary supplies easily enough: a pair of light linen pants that Nori had somehow acquired and Thorin had cut short enough to fit, as well as a large wooden basin, a bar of soap, and a long length of rope from Beorn’s household. Once he had everything, Thorin passed the others in their various states of rest and conversation and headed outside to the stream.
It was a bright day, but the coolness of the air was a pleasant surprise against his skin after the long hours spent inside. There were signs of life everywhere: grey dogs wandering about the open space, birds in the trees, the shapes of the bee hives some distance away. Thorin walked through the tall grass, eyes trained on a large flat rock next to the stream’s edge. It would do nicely as a place to clean his clothes, and he would move on to one of the pools he’d seen earlier to clean himself once this was done.
Although there had been a time when washing his own clothes might have seemed unbecoming of his position, long years on the road and in the towns of men had made Thorin more than proficient at it. He dipped the basin into the running water of the stream, set it down by the rock, and then efficiently stripped his many heavy layers of clothing - fur cloak, outer robe, overshirt, trousers, underclothes as well as all of his assorted leather and chainmail -before slipping on the light linen trousers and getting to work.
There had been little opportunity for giving anything cloth a proper clean during the journey, and Thorin sat on the rock and ruthlessly used soap, water, and brute force to take out as much blood, dirt, and muck as possible.
It took over an hour and several basins of water before everything was decently scoured. It was a mindless task, but a useful one, and before long everything he owned was wrung out and hanging from the rope he had tied between two trees.
Soapy and cold and everything but his hands and arms still filthy, he headed back across the fields. The pools were easy enough to find: although they were located a little ways away from Beorn’s cabin, the large rocks surrounding them stood out from a great distance. The sounds of merriment and splashing drifted over from quite a distance, and as he approached he could see that Gloin, Nori, Dori, and Bifur were already submerged in the water.
As Thorin came even closer, the realization that there was steam rising from the water almost made him groan out loud. Bifur spotted him first, shouting a greeting in Khuzdul and making the others turn.
“Thorin!” cried Nori upon seeing him, looking quite unrecognizable with his hair out of its elaborate style. Instead, it was a wet mass of red around his shoulders. “Come in and join us, the water’s more than fine.”
“Hot springs,” said Thorin, barely managing to believe it. The steam rising from the water only did a little to obscure his companions’ nakedness, but he did not mind. Long years of living and fighting alongside his kin had made him utterly unselfconscious about nudity, whether it be his own or that of others. He shook his head. “I cannot recall the last time I enjoyed such a luxury.”
“Aren’t they divine?” sighed Dori, sinking down so that his ears just barely poked out. He looked happier than Thorin had seen him in a long while.
Without another thought, Thorin shucked the linen pants and stepped into the hot water. The heat of it was a shock against his skin, and his still-healing wounds stung the slightest bit at contact. He sunk right down until he was submerged up to his sternum, muscles practically singing with relief, taking a moment to duck his head underwater to ensure that his hair got properly wet. When he breached the surface he could barely hold back a sigh of pleasure. He breathed in deep through his nose, letting his eyes close, enjoying the damp heat of the air.
“Do any of you remember the public hot springs in Erebor?” came Gloin’s voice, sounding languorous and very much relaxed. “Now that was a decent establishment.”
At the mention of Erebor as it used to be, Thorin felt something inside him tense up - but this was a good memory. It stung in the way that rubbing salve over a wound stings: still painful, but with the knowledge that it was working toward something worthwhile. Hearing his companions exchange memories of Erebor was fairly rare, and it made him even more determined to reclaim their home.
“The place by the rat-catcher’s shop?” asked Nori incredulously, and Thorin opened heavy eyes and raised an eyebrow. Dori and Nori had twin looks of scepticism on their faces.
At the other end of the pool, Gloin scowled dismissivly. “Not that place, heavens. Little more than a hive of disease, and in that neighbourhood. No, I mean the one by the old library. Marvelous hot springs. My wife and I used to go there fairly regularly,” he said, sounding proud.
Across from him, Bifur snickered and made a comment about their Company being a congregation of tamed cats and sewer rats. Gloin looked a little abashed, but laughed along with everyone else.
They were still discussing the merits of Erebor’s former bathing houses when Thorin spotted three figures coming towards them, the one lagging behind decidedly shorter than the others. He swallowed heavily.
“Hot springs!” cried Kili in delight when they got a bit closer, a look of complete ecstasy on his sweaty face. He, Fili, and Bilbo all still had swords clutched in their hands, obviously having come straight from practice. Kili was already clumsily kicking off his boots and tugging at his jerkin, tossing his sword onto a patch of grass in his eagerness. “Oh, it’s been ages. I probably smell like a pony’s rear end right about now.”
“Charming as ever,” Fili laughed, but he was already unlacing his own tunic with a grin. Behind him, however, Bilbo was approaching with an increasingly pained expression on his face. Thorin’s eyes narrowed.
“Did you injure yourself during training?” he asked sharply, eyes scanning over the hobbit in an attempt to locate any scratches or cuts. Bilbo blinked, his gaze refocusing. He was pink-faced from sword practice.
“Pardon?” Bilbo asked vaguely, then gave his head a firm shake. He appeared to be attempting to look anywhere but at the dwarves in the water, gaze pointed unnecessarily high. This had the effect of making him address the words to a nearby tree instead of to Thorin himself. Thorin frowned, wondering if hot springs were uncommon in the Shire. “I -no. Not injured at all.” There was a beat. “I am getting rather hungry, though. Time for an early lunch, I think. I’ll just -”
The rest of his sentence was cut off by two loud groans as Fili and Kili waded into the water, twin looks of bliss on their faces.
“Oh, it’s wonderful,” sighed Fili, dunking his whole head underwater before shaking his hair out like a dog. Kili laughed in delight, and shortly the two of them were settling against the edges. “Bilbo, don’t be a curmudgeon! Your swordplay is coming along nicely; you deserve to give yourself a reward.”
The rest of the dwarves called out their agreement, beckoning Bilbo over. Thorin remained deliberately silent, lips pressed tight together. He tried very hard not to think about what Bilbo would look like unbuttoning his clothes, but his mind was already running slightly wild with the image.
Thorin had seen Bilbo in partial stages of undress over the course of their journey - it was hard not to, considering the close quarters they all shared on the road - but it would be nothing compared to seeing him stripped bare and soaking wet, the water warm against his skin. He wondered if his pale skin would turn pink from the heat of it. Thorin shifted uneasily at the thought, allowing himself to sink a bit lower into the water.
“I’m fine, really,” Bilbo insisted, taking a step back. “Honestly. There are books in the hall I want to look at while there’s still light, and I can always come back a bit later -”
“Just your feet, then,” cajoled Kili, giving Bilbo a plaintiff look that he was almost too old to pull off. Thorin could remember that same expression on a much younger face. “Come on, Bilbo. You walk around on those things all day without boots; they must get sore. Just stay for a few minutes.”
“I...” Bilbo hesitated, mouth twisted up and face rumpled with some unknown emotion. “All right, yes, fine,” he finally conceded, sounding pained. Nori and Bifur both cheered, and Kili let out a little shout of victory. Thorin shoved away the twinge of disappointment at not seeing Bilbo undressed, feeling ashamed of himself for even thinking about it.
There was a pause as Bilbo rolled up his trousers even higher, fussily making sure they were both the same length. Thorin felt his gaze lowering to land on Bilbo’s feet, large and covered in a great deal of light-coloured hair. He couldn’t help but wonder if they were ticklish, or if constant exposure made the soles too thick to feel much. He wondered if Bilbo enjoyed people touching them, or if touching a hobbit’s feet was somehow taboo.
Finally, Bilbo sat himself down in between Gloin and Nori. He dipped his feet in cautiously, but the little exhale of pleasure he let out when they were all the way underwater had Fili and Kili practically beaming. Thorin felt a smile tugging at his own lips, as well. They all sat for a little while, enjoying the soothing heat.
“What books are you eager to read, Mister Bilbo?” asked Dori after a moment. At Bilbo’s blank look, he elaborated. “The ones in the hall you want to take a look at?”
“Oh!” said Bilbo, giving a little shrug. He swished his feet back and forth in the water as he spoke. “Beorn’s library is small and his books are... rather oversized, but there are a few interesting ones about gardening and geography I was hoping to look at. They’re mostly in the common tongue or Elvish, which is nice.”
All at once, Thorin felt badly wrong-footed. “You read Elvish?” he asked, surprise and displeasure welling up hard within him. He imagined Bilbo tucked up in Bag-End, eagerly learning that squiggly mess of an alphabet. The thought made him feel profoundly irritated.
Bilbo frowned, a wrinkle appearing on his forehead. “I do,” he said, sounding cautious.
“Do all hobbits read Elvish?” Thorin asked insistently, to which Bilbo shook his head.
“Hardly any, no. Most of them don’t see the point.”
“There isn’t one,” said Thorin conclusively, feeling rather smug, to which Bilbo let out an indignant little splutter.
“There most certainly is a point,” Bilbo persisted, demeanour taking on the tone of someone who had had this debate many times before. Thorin thought he heard Kili smother a giggle, but he couldn’t be sure. “Rivendell is close to the Shire, I’ll have you remember. There are all sorts of practical reasons that one might learn the language, and I know I always thought of going there. My Elvish might not be perfect, but -”
“If you could keep learning it now, would you?” Thorin demanded, the irrational anger swelling up even greater inside him. Bilbo gave him an obstinate look in response, straightening his back and throwing back his shoulders.
“I most certainly would,” said Bilbo, to which Thorin threw up his arms in frustration. The movement sent water droplets flying.
“That’s ridiculous, though!” Thorin snarled, the idea of a younger Bilbo all aflutter to go to Rivendell and meet the elves so foul it almost made him feel physically sick. “Why would you waste all that time and energy when you could be learning Khuzdul instead?”
And that idea - of Bilbo learning Khuzdul, speaking Khuzdul - was so perfect that Thorin was shocked he hadn’t thought of it earlier. Once they reclaimed the Lonely Mountain, trying to keep Bilbo in a place where he didn’t even speak the main language would surely be a fool’s task. If he could speak Khuzdul, Bilbo would be able to preside over infinitely more tasks in the reconstruction: it would show respect for their culture, and his knowledge of the language would be another tie to bind them together. It would be better than Elvish, he thought sourly, stomach churning at the thought.
Bolstering himself, Thorin fully expected another rapid-fire contestation; for the question to get Bilbo more worked up than ever. He almost wanted a fight, to have a reason to pay attention to Bilbo other than the damnable thoughts he couldn’t speak out loud.
It seemed to have the complete opposite effect, however. Instead of growing more upset, Bilbo sat with his mouth slightly agape as he blinked in surprise. Around them, none of the other dwarves spoke. There was complete silence for a few long, still moments.
“... Khuzdul is a secret language,” said Bilbo eventually, sounding uncertain. Thorin snorted.
“For dwarves and their closest allies, yes. Do you think me a simpleton?” He scoffed, giving Bilbo a hard look. “You did not answer my question.”
For the first time since arriving at the hot springs, Bilbo lowered his gaze and looked Thorin straight in the eyes. Thorin looked right back, prepared to clash over the issue indefinitely if necessary. After a long pause, however, Bilbo actually nodded.
“All right,” he said simply, the expression on his face unreadable. He gave a little shrug. “Khuzdul it is, then.”
Astonished at the easy victory, Thorin blinked. Around them, everyone else was being so steadfastly silent that the lack of noise rang loudly in the air. “You don’t intend to fight me about this?”
There was the briefest of pauses before Bilbo cocked his head to one side, all of the fight seeming to have leached out of him. “No,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think I will.”
“Good,” said Thorin unnecessarily, eyebrows furrowing. Pent-up energy was buzzing inside of him, ready to be unleashed, but there didn’t seem much else to say. “I’ll instruct Ori to begin giving you lessons in both spoken aglâb and cirth script, as well the basics of iglishmêk. That should suffice for a start.”
“All right,” said Bilbo after a second, before pausing. No one else spoke. Instead of upset, however, Bilbo seemed quietly thoughtful. “I’m... going to go back to the hall now, I think,” he said, scooting back and slowly standing. His feet left little twin puddles of water on the rock. He hesitated. “Thank you for the soak.”
“You’re welcome,” said Thorin, the words awkward and stilted, even though he had done nothing in particular to earn Bilbo’s thanks.
His companions wished the halfling farewell before returning to their conversation, their words somehow more reserved than before, but Thorin didn’t join them. Instead, he watched as Bilbo turned and walked back toward Beorn’s home, growing smaller and smaller as he walked further away.
But there were supplies to be arranged and routes through Mirkwood to debate, and he didn’t have time to puzzle over such strange behaviour. Thorin excused himself before long as well, determined to focus on the matter at hand.
He had to try very hard indeed to get that unknowable expression out of his mind.
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Chapter Four Coming Soon