FIC: The Last Guardian (Hobbit: Thorin/Bilbo, Dwalin)
Title: The Last Guardian
Relationship: Background Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Dwalin, Elrond
Fandom: Hobbit
Warnings/Spoilers: None beyond the Lord of the Rings trilogy
Rating: G
Word Count: 1300
Summary: Dwalin and the remaining members of Thorin's Company travel to Rivendell to bid farewell to their burglar.
When word came to Erebor of the fate of the expedition to Moria, King Thorin III, son of Dain Ironfoot, sent a party led by Dwalin, son of Fundin, son of Farin to that place. There they recovered the bones of Balin and Oin and Ori, and they returned to Erebor with them and placed them beside King Thorin, and Fili and Kili his sister's sons. And the King decreed that all of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield would rest together under the Mountain when their time was done, so they would not be separated in death.
Rivendell looked exactly the same as it had the last time Dwalin son of Fundin had been there, eighty years ago. But this time the dwarves traveling with him numbered only seven, and neither his brother nor the one who would always be their King was at his side.
He had always expected to fall before them, in battle, his weapons bloodied. But they had all gone on before him somehow, the gentle and the noble, leaving only the rough warrior behind.
He shook off his dark thoughts as Elrond approached, and bowed--for this too had changed, that elves and dwarves could be comrades and allies in this new age.
"Master Dwalin," said Elrond, bowing deeply in return, "May you and your company be welcome in Rivendell. We are honored by your presence."
"We're not here to see you off, we're here to see Mr. Baggins," said Bofur from behind him.
Dwalin gave him a quelling look, then turned back to Elrond. "We thank you for inviting us to see Mr. Baggins before his...departure."
"Indeed. Tomorrow we shall pass into the Undying Lands, where he shall be healed of his long travail and given peace for the rest of his days."
Gloin muttered something just barely loud enough to be heard about sailing off to elvish moonshine and nonsense. Elrond raised an elegant eyebrow, but both he and Dwalin pretended not to have heard as he gestured for them to follow him into Imladris.
"I must tell you, friend dwarves, that you will find the Ring-Bearer much changed," said Elrond. He waited until the dwarves determined that the Ring-Bearer was indeed Mr. Baggins before continuing. "You are all much the same as you were when you retook Erebor--"
"--a little greyer and a little stouter," said Dwalin, "But eighty years is not so great a time, after all."
"It is for a hobbit," Elrond said. "He was no child when he traveled with you, and now he is a hundred and thirty years old. That is the prime of life for a dwarf, but not so for a Secondborn. He is old, Master Dwalin, and I warn you that his mind wanders at times. But I know he will be happy to see you all, for he speaks of you often."
He ushered them into a small, cozy room with a fire crackling, and a comfortable chair in front of it.
In the chair, his eyes closed, was a hobbit with white hair and a lined face. Dwalin felt his breath catch--he was more than old, he was ancient, worn with the years and the burden he had kept hidden from his friends. Dwalin felt suddenly that Bilbo was translucent, thinned almost to vanishing.
Yet when he opened his eyes, they were the same eyes Dwalin had known so well, brave and merry and sad at once.
"Dwalin," he breathed, wonder dawning in his face. "Oh, friend Dwalin." He stood with an effort that made Dwalin's chest tighten, stepping forward with his arms outstretched. Then he stopped short, a radiant smile on his face, waiting.
Dwalin leaned forward and gently, so gently, touched his forehead to Bilbo's wrinkled brow.
Bilbo threw his arms around him and embraced him. "Oh my goodness," he said, his gaze going beyond him to the others in the party from Erebor. "Bofur! And Bifur and Bombur," he said, stepping forward to embrace each of them in turn. "And Dori, and Nori. And Gloin. You all look so well, so well indeed, it does my heart good to see you."
But his eyes were searching behind them, and Dwalin saw his face slowly crease with disappointment. "Oh, I was hoping..." he said, turning to Dwalin, "I was so hoping that maybe Thorin would come."
Dwalin drew a sharp, pained breath, and his eyes went to Elrond, standing in the doorway. Elrond's gaze met his, and for a moment elf and dwarf shared an understanding and a sorrow.
"Is he still terribly angry with me?" Bilbo's eyes were filled with tears. "I feel I never properly apologized for that wretched business with the Arkenstone, and it...it bothers me sometimes."
Dwalin struggled to find his voice. "Thorin is not angry with you," he managed at last. "He forgave you long, long ago."
"Oh, did he? I grow somewhat forgetful, I'm afraid. But I'm so glad," Bilbo said. "Thank you for telling me so, I shall try to remember it and not let it grieve me." He wiped his eyes and smiled at the dwarves. "Shall we eat and drink together, this last night before my journey? Since moving here I've managed to convince the elves to stock some real food."
"It would be our honor," said Dwalin, and he and all the dwarves bowed low.
They had a feast that night, with ale and sausage and all things that hobbits and dwarves most loved, and Dwalin suspected that Elrond had prepared well for their visit. They laughed and talked and sang through the night, and sometimes Bilbo toasted their fallen comrades, but other times he asked if Balin was well, if Kili had ever grown a full beard and if Fili was making his uncle proud, and did not see the pain that flickered through his friends' eyes, quickly hidden. Still, the music was merry and the company joyful, and so they spent Bilbo's last night in Rivendell in happiness and contentment.
In the morning the dwarves gathered at the entrance of Rivendell. Gandalf the White was there, and Galadriel, shining like a star, but the dwarves had eyes only for their burglar.
Stopping next to his shaggy pony, Bilbo reached out and took Dwalin's hands in his. "When you return to the Mountain, would you please--" He broke off, swallowed, started again, "--would you please give Thorin my love?"
Dwalin thought of the place of quiet shadows in the heart of the Mountain, a tomb with a silver sword gleaming above it. "Bilbo," he said, "Oh, Bilbo--" and his voice broke.
But Bilbo patted his hands gently. "I know, Dwalin," he whispered, and his eyes were clear and sad. "I know. But would you...tell him anyway?"
Dwalin nodded and cleared his throat. "Nothing in the wide world would have kept him from bidding you farewell."
Bilbo clasped his hands. "Guard him well, my friend," he said. "Guard them all well." He bid goodbye to the rest of the dwarves, then was helped onto his pony by an elf. "Farewell!" he called as he rode from the valley. "Farewell, my dear dwarves!" The other dwarves waved and called their farewells, weeping, but Dwalin stood silent and watched Bilbo Baggins go into the West, until he could see him no more.
Then he turned his face to the East, and began his journey back to the Lonely Mountain, and to the quiet graves that lay there.
Dwalin son of Fundin lived in Erebor and served it all his days, and one by one the members of Thorin's company dwindled, and they were buried with their King, until he alone remained. And the day came when they found his body deep in the Mountain, with his back against Thorin's tomb, and he was smiling fiercely in death.
So passed the last of the companions of Thorin Oakenshield, and here the story of their company in the realm of Middle Earth ends. --Gimli son of Gloin, "Chronicle of Erebor"
Relationship: Background Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Dwalin, Elrond
Fandom: Hobbit
Warnings/Spoilers: None beyond the Lord of the Rings trilogy
Rating: G
Word Count: 1300
Summary: Dwalin and the remaining members of Thorin's Company travel to Rivendell to bid farewell to their burglar.
When word came to Erebor of the fate of the expedition to Moria, King Thorin III, son of Dain Ironfoot, sent a party led by Dwalin, son of Fundin, son of Farin to that place. There they recovered the bones of Balin and Oin and Ori, and they returned to Erebor with them and placed them beside King Thorin, and Fili and Kili his sister's sons. And the King decreed that all of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield would rest together under the Mountain when their time was done, so they would not be separated in death.
Rivendell looked exactly the same as it had the last time Dwalin son of Fundin had been there, eighty years ago. But this time the dwarves traveling with him numbered only seven, and neither his brother nor the one who would always be their King was at his side.
He had always expected to fall before them, in battle, his weapons bloodied. But they had all gone on before him somehow, the gentle and the noble, leaving only the rough warrior behind.
He shook off his dark thoughts as Elrond approached, and bowed--for this too had changed, that elves and dwarves could be comrades and allies in this new age.
"Master Dwalin," said Elrond, bowing deeply in return, "May you and your company be welcome in Rivendell. We are honored by your presence."
"We're not here to see you off, we're here to see Mr. Baggins," said Bofur from behind him.
Dwalin gave him a quelling look, then turned back to Elrond. "We thank you for inviting us to see Mr. Baggins before his...departure."
"Indeed. Tomorrow we shall pass into the Undying Lands, where he shall be healed of his long travail and given peace for the rest of his days."
Gloin muttered something just barely loud enough to be heard about sailing off to elvish moonshine and nonsense. Elrond raised an elegant eyebrow, but both he and Dwalin pretended not to have heard as he gestured for them to follow him into Imladris.
"I must tell you, friend dwarves, that you will find the Ring-Bearer much changed," said Elrond. He waited until the dwarves determined that the Ring-Bearer was indeed Mr. Baggins before continuing. "You are all much the same as you were when you retook Erebor--"
"--a little greyer and a little stouter," said Dwalin, "But eighty years is not so great a time, after all."
"It is for a hobbit," Elrond said. "He was no child when he traveled with you, and now he is a hundred and thirty years old. That is the prime of life for a dwarf, but not so for a Secondborn. He is old, Master Dwalin, and I warn you that his mind wanders at times. But I know he will be happy to see you all, for he speaks of you often."
He ushered them into a small, cozy room with a fire crackling, and a comfortable chair in front of it.
In the chair, his eyes closed, was a hobbit with white hair and a lined face. Dwalin felt his breath catch--he was more than old, he was ancient, worn with the years and the burden he had kept hidden from his friends. Dwalin felt suddenly that Bilbo was translucent, thinned almost to vanishing.
Yet when he opened his eyes, they were the same eyes Dwalin had known so well, brave and merry and sad at once.
"Dwalin," he breathed, wonder dawning in his face. "Oh, friend Dwalin." He stood with an effort that made Dwalin's chest tighten, stepping forward with his arms outstretched. Then he stopped short, a radiant smile on his face, waiting.
Dwalin leaned forward and gently, so gently, touched his forehead to Bilbo's wrinkled brow.
Bilbo threw his arms around him and embraced him. "Oh my goodness," he said, his gaze going beyond him to the others in the party from Erebor. "Bofur! And Bifur and Bombur," he said, stepping forward to embrace each of them in turn. "And Dori, and Nori. And Gloin. You all look so well, so well indeed, it does my heart good to see you."
But his eyes were searching behind them, and Dwalin saw his face slowly crease with disappointment. "Oh, I was hoping..." he said, turning to Dwalin, "I was so hoping that maybe Thorin would come."
Dwalin drew a sharp, pained breath, and his eyes went to Elrond, standing in the doorway. Elrond's gaze met his, and for a moment elf and dwarf shared an understanding and a sorrow.
"Is he still terribly angry with me?" Bilbo's eyes were filled with tears. "I feel I never properly apologized for that wretched business with the Arkenstone, and it...it bothers me sometimes."
Dwalin struggled to find his voice. "Thorin is not angry with you," he managed at last. "He forgave you long, long ago."
"Oh, did he? I grow somewhat forgetful, I'm afraid. But I'm so glad," Bilbo said. "Thank you for telling me so, I shall try to remember it and not let it grieve me." He wiped his eyes and smiled at the dwarves. "Shall we eat and drink together, this last night before my journey? Since moving here I've managed to convince the elves to stock some real food."
"It would be our honor," said Dwalin, and he and all the dwarves bowed low.
They had a feast that night, with ale and sausage and all things that hobbits and dwarves most loved, and Dwalin suspected that Elrond had prepared well for their visit. They laughed and talked and sang through the night, and sometimes Bilbo toasted their fallen comrades, but other times he asked if Balin was well, if Kili had ever grown a full beard and if Fili was making his uncle proud, and did not see the pain that flickered through his friends' eyes, quickly hidden. Still, the music was merry and the company joyful, and so they spent Bilbo's last night in Rivendell in happiness and contentment.
In the morning the dwarves gathered at the entrance of Rivendell. Gandalf the White was there, and Galadriel, shining like a star, but the dwarves had eyes only for their burglar.
Stopping next to his shaggy pony, Bilbo reached out and took Dwalin's hands in his. "When you return to the Mountain, would you please--" He broke off, swallowed, started again, "--would you please give Thorin my love?"
Dwalin thought of the place of quiet shadows in the heart of the Mountain, a tomb with a silver sword gleaming above it. "Bilbo," he said, "Oh, Bilbo--" and his voice broke.
But Bilbo patted his hands gently. "I know, Dwalin," he whispered, and his eyes were clear and sad. "I know. But would you...tell him anyway?"
Dwalin nodded and cleared his throat. "Nothing in the wide world would have kept him from bidding you farewell."
Bilbo clasped his hands. "Guard him well, my friend," he said. "Guard them all well." He bid goodbye to the rest of the dwarves, then was helped onto his pony by an elf. "Farewell!" he called as he rode from the valley. "Farewell, my dear dwarves!" The other dwarves waved and called their farewells, weeping, but Dwalin stood silent and watched Bilbo Baggins go into the West, until he could see him no more.
Then he turned his face to the East, and began his journey back to the Lonely Mountain, and to the quiet graves that lay there.
Dwalin son of Fundin lived in Erebor and served it all his days, and one by one the members of Thorin's company dwindled, and they were buried with their King, until he alone remained. And the day came when they found his body deep in the Mountain, with his back against Thorin's tomb, and he was smiling fiercely in death.
So passed the last of the companions of Thorin Oakenshield, and here the story of their company in the realm of Middle Earth ends. --Gimli son of Gloin, "Chronicle of Erebor"