FIC: Two Songs for Harp (Hobbit, Thorin/Bilbo)
Title: Two Songs for Harp
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Thorin, Bilbo, the rest of the Company
Fandom: Hobbit
Warnings/Spoilers: Book-canon compliant
Rating: G
Word Count: 2800
Summary: Two songs played on two harps: one in Laketown, one in the heart of Erebor before the Battle of the Five Armies.
Note: Thorin's song in Erebor is adapted from the Irish ballad "The Foggy Dew," by Charles O’Neill.
"We'd best be heading back soon, I have to take Dori's place watching over poor sick Mr. Baggins," Fili said as the company of dwarves peered into another Laketown shop window, ignoring the men staring at them.
"I'll get the fiddles and join you," Kili said. "We can play him 'The Sapphire Reel,'' I think he'd like that one."
"That's a good one," said Nori. "He liked 'Farewell to Belegost' as well, though that one's written for flute."
"Hobbits certainly do like music," said Oin. "It's the only thing that seems to cheer him up lately." He glanced behind them and slowed up as he realized Thorin had fallen behind, causing something of a pile-up as the other dwarves walked into him.
"What is it?" asked Fili as they backtracked to where Thorin was standing. "Something good to eat or--oh."
Outside the store were hung various fiddles, drums, and pipes. Thorin Oakenshield stood before a small wooden harp, sized for travel, and his gaze followed its curves.
"I haven't heard you play the harp for ages," said Fili. "You should buy it, I'm certain Bilbo would love to hear--what? What did I say?" he stammered as Thorin whirled and stomped on, muttering darkly about frivolous pursuits and finicky burglars.
"Lad, he doesn't have the money to buy a harp," Dwalin said. "None of us do."
"Couldn't he just ask the Laketown people for a harp?" said Ori, "Or even just for enough money to buy one? They seemed very enthusiastic, and I'm sure if he just told them he had no money and asked nicely..." His voice trailed off as he watched Thorin Oakenshield stride down the wooden walkway, refusing to step aside for the curious men standing in his path, making everyone scatter before him like leaves before a storm. "No," he concluded sadly, "That wouldn't do at all, would it?"
Fili lifted his shrunken purse and grimaced at it. Then he looked up with a sudden smile. "No one of us has enough money to buy Uncle Thorin a harp," he said.
The other dwarves started to grin as well.
: : :
"What is this, by Durin's beard?" Thorin's scowl boded ill, but Fili continued to hold the little harp out with a conciliatory smile. "Wasting money on foolishness when..." His voice trailed off as he took the harp from his nephew, still frowning. The strings hummed slightly as he lifted it.
He sat down and put the harp on his lap, bending into it, and ran his fingers across the strings. A ripple of sound like a cascade of diamonds filled the room, and the dwarves looked at each other in triumphant delight. Thorin let his fingers play across the strings for a while, and slowly a tune formed within the dancing notes: sad and merry at once, and full of restless yearning. Then he stilled the strings and stood.
"It's no dwarvish harp," he growled. "It's built for a man's hand and a man's form, and its tone is crude at best." Cradling it in his arms, he stalked toward the door, then stopped. "Thank you," he said without turning.
Moments later, the company heard the sound of scales coming from his room, and Fili and Kili slapped each other on the back so hard they made each other cough.
: : :
Bilbo blinked at Thorin as he took the seat next to his bed. "Is that a harp?"
"Ah, burglar, I see your fever has not impaired your keen sight," Thorin said with another of his odd near-chuckles. "Are you sleeping better?"
"More or less," said Bilbo. Rather less than more, he thought, but he didn't want to admit how very exhausted he felt, or how difficult it was to sleep while plagued by troubling dreams. "Where did you get a harp?"
Thorin cleared his throat and glowered down at him. "Dwarves are capable of procuring items even without a burglar's help," he said sternly.
"Good grief," muttered Bilbo, "There's no need to be quite so touchy. Can you play it?"
Thorin gave him a look of transcendentally regal annoyance. "No, I brought it here to use as a footstool," he barked. "Of course I can play it. Although this little wooden thing is a poor substitute indeed for my own harp of gold which lies still under the Mountain, awaiting the touch of my hand once more." He passed a hand over the strings, and music filled the room, cool and pure. Leaning closer to the wood, he began to pick out a tune: low and gentle as rain on stone. Listening, Bilbo felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his soul, soothed into silence by the graceful notes.
"Oh," he sighed when Thorin paused. "That was...beautiful."
"I am badly out of practice and the harp is ill-strung," Thorin harrumphed. "When I am King under the Mountain once more, I shall play you a true dwarvish song."
"Well, until then, I would be honored if you wouldn't mind playing a little more," Bilbo said.
Thorin didn't reply, but he bent back to the harp and his fingers danced over the strings, and music washed over Bilbo like a cold, clear river. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and let it carry him into dark, deep places, where all was still and peaceful and no nightmares lurked.
: : :
When he woke again--slowly, gently--the light coming through the curtains was gray with morning, but music was still filling the room. Drifting up through sleep he became aware that there was a voice blending in with the harp music, as the shadows of leaves blend with sunlight to create dappled patterns on the ground. He didn't truly hear the words until the voice broke off and muttered something that sounded like a curse in an unknown tongue, then started again at the beginning:
If I had a kingdom, with treasure and with lands
I would make thee fine gloves of silver for thy hands,
A suit of mail that shimmers like water in the sun
To guard thee and to hold thee until the battle's won.
Alas, I have no kingdom, no silver and no gold
No haven from the bitter wind, no shelter from the cold,
But while we roam the wide world I shall give my part:
My sword, my harp, my honor, and a true and willing heart.
"That's lovely," Bilbo couldn't help but mumble, and there was a sharp jangle of strings, then silence.
"It's an old dwarvish song," said Thorin after a moment. "Just a sentimental bit of nonsense."
"I liked it quite a lot," Bilbo said, stifling a yawn. "What time is it?"
"Not quite dawn."
"You know, I feel that I could go downstairs and have some breakfast," said Bilbo, wonderingly. It had been a few days since he had felt well enough to actually get out of bed. "I feel so much better."
"The hobbit is interested in food. Truly, a miracle indeed."
Bilbo ignored Thorin's tone. "I wonder if they have bacon?" he mumbled, and yawned again.
"They won't be serving breakfast for a few more hours." There was a ripple of notes, and Thorin picked up once more the gentle tune he had been playing when Bilbo awoke. "Sleep a little more, if you can. Don't worry! I shall make sure you don't miss your meal."
Bilbo turned over to look at Thorin's hands on the harp, deftly weaving music from the strings. "I won't be able to keep my eyes open if you keep playing that song," he said as another yawn threatened to crack his jaws. "It's very...very soothing..."
As he drifted back into sleep he heard Thorin start to sing again, his voice almost too soft to be heard.
No dark dreams shall haunt thee while I guard thy rest
So close your eyes and sleep in peace, my jewel of the West.
: : :
Bilbo ducked as a sweet roll hurtled just over his head; Gloin caught it out of the air without looking and stuffed it in his mouth. The innkeeper looked distressed, and Bilbo could only give him an apologetic look: he had long since gotten used to dwarvish table manners.
"A toast to our healthy burglar, may the hair on his toes never grow thin!" Everyone roared approval at Dwalin's words and clinked tankards.
Bilbo took another bite of honey bread and couldn't help smiling at the company. "I have to thank you all, I really must," he said. "You've all been terribly kind while I was ill." Nori pounded him on the back in a friendly way and he tried not to wince. "I especially liked the chance to hear more dwarvish music," he added. "It's quite beautiful. The song Thorin was playing this morning, that Jewel of the West song..." He shook his head, "Truly exquisite."
"Jewel of the West?" Ori squinted thoughtfully. "I don't know of any such song."
"You know, the one that starts with 'If I had a kingdom...'" Bilbo sang the first stanza of the song. As he sang, the other dwarves stopped eating one by one and stared at him until he felt rather self-conscious. "Well, I'm not doing it justice, I'm afraid. You must know it, surely. He said it was an old traditional tune."
"I can't say as I do," Ori said, scratching his head. "Are you sure--" Here he broke off into a coughing fit as he intercepted both an elbow in the ribs from Dwalin and a Look from Thorin. When he was done coughing, he nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes, Jewel of the West! That very old song!" The other dwarves closed their mouths and chimed in with sounds of enthusiastic agreement. "Where I come from we call it 'If I Had a Kingdom,' of course, so it took me a moment to, um, recognize it."
"Well, it's beautiful," said Bilbo, helping himself to more bacon. "Such a sweet song."
"Very well then!" announced Thorin abruptly, standing up and banging the table so hard that all the plates (and the dwarves) leapt. "If we are done yammering about archaic melodies, some of us have preparations to make for Erebor, and no excuse to laze about in bed all day."
Bilbo glared at him, the bacon halfway to his mouth. "Laze--! Well, don't let me keep you, by any means!"
"I have no intention of it!" And with that, Thorin stomped out of the room.
Across the table from him, Kili couldn't seem to stop giggling for some reason. "Such a sweet song! So exquisite!" he chortled, until Gloin knocked his chair out from under him and sent him crashing to the ground.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain at last, smiled as Bilbo entered the vault deep within Erebor. "Hail and welcome, oh Royal Burglar! Look what I have found!" Since re-taking Erebor his heart had felt so light that it was easy to smile: he had taken back his own land, he was no longer a prince without a country. He had finally given his people a home, and was worthy to be their King at last. Who could not smile at such a thing?
Bilbo Baggins looked at him in silence for a long moment. He was not smiling--indeed, Thorin realized, he had hardly smiled at all since the death of the dragon. The realization made anger nibble at the edges of his joy, but he pushed it away.
"Did I not say that in the heart of Erebor my own harp awaited the touch of my hand once more?" He pulled off the brocade and the great golden harp glimmered in the light of the lamps. "Come closer, and I shall play for you songs deserving of a King and his burglar."
He sat down and ran his hands over the strings, and rich opalescent music sang through the room. Of course his harp would still be true, he thought, starting to play. Everything here had been waiting for him, for his return.
(Everything but the missing Arkenstone, the thought came into his mind, but he put it aside.)
He struck the strings and sang:
Let the wide world gaze in deep amaze at those fearless dwarves, but few
Who shall bear the fight that freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew.
Bilbo stepped into the room. "Thorin," he said. Thorin paid him no heed, lost in his music, in the golden magic of it. "King Thorin, there is an orc army outside your doors." Thorin closed his eyes and listened to the notes. "There are thousands of them. Thousands."
Thorin looked at him, and Bilbo blinked as though he had shouted, although he kept his voice even when he spoke. "Then they shall see what dwarves can do when they defend their home."
"There are other armies outside your gate," Bilbo said. "There are the hosts of the Elvenking, and the men of Laketown."
"Carrion crows," Thorin growled, and the golden strings under his hands growled with him. "Vultures waiting to pick the field clean."
"I believe--" Bilbo stopped and raised his voice to be heard over the martial harp, "--I believe that they would come to your aid. If they were asked."
Thorin brought his hands down on the strings like a blow and it cried out and was silent. "The King under the Mountain does not grovel to men," he said. "And most certainly not to elves."
"Not grovel." Bilbo took a quick step forward. "Request. A simple--"
"They turned their backs on us!" Thorin found he was standing, his voice a roar. "I asked them--I begged them, and they turned away! I will not be made a fool again, not if the orcs numbered more than the stars in the sky."
"If you were to give them something--a show of good faith--"
"You would have me purchase my life, like a haggler in the marketplace." Thorin's voice was low and cold. "You understand nothing of what my honor means, if you would have me sell it so cheaply."
Bilbo shook his head, and his mouth twisted. "Then they will die. The orcs will kill all your people--brave Balin and Dwalin, and merry Bofur, and gentle Kili and Fili--"
"--then they shall perish not as homeless wanderers, but dwarves of Erebor. They knew when they joined me what might lie ahead, and I will not demean their sacrifices by giving up the home we have finally reclaimed."
Bilbo's mouth worked in silence for a moment. "Thorin," he said, and it was nearly a sob. "Thorin. They will kill you." He said it as though it were a terrible thing to contemplate, as though it broke his heart, and somehow this made the anger in Thorin blaze into brightness once more.
"Then I shall die King under the Mountain!" he cried. "And when I arrive at the halls of my ancestors, I shall be able to hold my head without shame, and none shall say: There passes Thorin Oakenshield, who sold his honor to the elves. I cannot go like a beggar to those who have mocked me," he said. He meant to say it with all the rage in his heart, but somehow it came out as a plea. "I would betray all that I am, all that I have done to get here. I cannot."
Bilbo looked at him for a long time. "I understand," he said, and his face was strangely set and determined, with a compassion in his eyes that made Thorin turn away rather than bear it any longer.
Then he heard Bilbo say softly, "I liked your song in Laketown better, my King."
When he turned back, Bilbo was gone.
He clenched his fists--what had he expected, that the burglar would throw himself down and kiss his hand, beg forgiveness and pledge his fealty? Had he hoped that Bilbo would swear that Thorin was a king worth dying for?
And if he had, what kind of fool did that make him?
No. He was King under the Mountain. He was a dwarf of Erebor. He was Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, and he was in his rightful place. He sat down once more before the great shining harp, put his hands to the golden strands and began to play: a song of righteousness, a song of glorious death.
There was a snap, and two of the strings gave way beneath his shaking fingers, like the sound of a breaking heart.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Thorin, Bilbo, the rest of the Company
Fandom: Hobbit
Warnings/Spoilers: Book-canon compliant
Rating: G
Word Count: 2800
Summary: Two songs played on two harps: one in Laketown, one in the heart of Erebor before the Battle of the Five Armies.
Note: Thorin's song in Erebor is adapted from the Irish ballad "The Foggy Dew," by Charles O’Neill.
"We'd best be heading back soon, I have to take Dori's place watching over poor sick Mr. Baggins," Fili said as the company of dwarves peered into another Laketown shop window, ignoring the men staring at them.
"I'll get the fiddles and join you," Kili said. "We can play him 'The Sapphire Reel,'' I think he'd like that one."
"That's a good one," said Nori. "He liked 'Farewell to Belegost' as well, though that one's written for flute."
"Hobbits certainly do like music," said Oin. "It's the only thing that seems to cheer him up lately." He glanced behind them and slowed up as he realized Thorin had fallen behind, causing something of a pile-up as the other dwarves walked into him.
"What is it?" asked Fili as they backtracked to where Thorin was standing. "Something good to eat or--oh."
Outside the store were hung various fiddles, drums, and pipes. Thorin Oakenshield stood before a small wooden harp, sized for travel, and his gaze followed its curves.
"I haven't heard you play the harp for ages," said Fili. "You should buy it, I'm certain Bilbo would love to hear--what? What did I say?" he stammered as Thorin whirled and stomped on, muttering darkly about frivolous pursuits and finicky burglars.
"Lad, he doesn't have the money to buy a harp," Dwalin said. "None of us do."
"Couldn't he just ask the Laketown people for a harp?" said Ori, "Or even just for enough money to buy one? They seemed very enthusiastic, and I'm sure if he just told them he had no money and asked nicely..." His voice trailed off as he watched Thorin Oakenshield stride down the wooden walkway, refusing to step aside for the curious men standing in his path, making everyone scatter before him like leaves before a storm. "No," he concluded sadly, "That wouldn't do at all, would it?"
Fili lifted his shrunken purse and grimaced at it. Then he looked up with a sudden smile. "No one of us has enough money to buy Uncle Thorin a harp," he said.
The other dwarves started to grin as well.
: : :
"What is this, by Durin's beard?" Thorin's scowl boded ill, but Fili continued to hold the little harp out with a conciliatory smile. "Wasting money on foolishness when..." His voice trailed off as he took the harp from his nephew, still frowning. The strings hummed slightly as he lifted it.
He sat down and put the harp on his lap, bending into it, and ran his fingers across the strings. A ripple of sound like a cascade of diamonds filled the room, and the dwarves looked at each other in triumphant delight. Thorin let his fingers play across the strings for a while, and slowly a tune formed within the dancing notes: sad and merry at once, and full of restless yearning. Then he stilled the strings and stood.
"It's no dwarvish harp," he growled. "It's built for a man's hand and a man's form, and its tone is crude at best." Cradling it in his arms, he stalked toward the door, then stopped. "Thank you," he said without turning.
Moments later, the company heard the sound of scales coming from his room, and Fili and Kili slapped each other on the back so hard they made each other cough.
: : :
Bilbo blinked at Thorin as he took the seat next to his bed. "Is that a harp?"
"Ah, burglar, I see your fever has not impaired your keen sight," Thorin said with another of his odd near-chuckles. "Are you sleeping better?"
"More or less," said Bilbo. Rather less than more, he thought, but he didn't want to admit how very exhausted he felt, or how difficult it was to sleep while plagued by troubling dreams. "Where did you get a harp?"
Thorin cleared his throat and glowered down at him. "Dwarves are capable of procuring items even without a burglar's help," he said sternly.
"Good grief," muttered Bilbo, "There's no need to be quite so touchy. Can you play it?"
Thorin gave him a look of transcendentally regal annoyance. "No, I brought it here to use as a footstool," he barked. "Of course I can play it. Although this little wooden thing is a poor substitute indeed for my own harp of gold which lies still under the Mountain, awaiting the touch of my hand once more." He passed a hand over the strings, and music filled the room, cool and pure. Leaning closer to the wood, he began to pick out a tune: low and gentle as rain on stone. Listening, Bilbo felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his soul, soothed into silence by the graceful notes.
"Oh," he sighed when Thorin paused. "That was...beautiful."
"I am badly out of practice and the harp is ill-strung," Thorin harrumphed. "When I am King under the Mountain once more, I shall play you a true dwarvish song."
"Well, until then, I would be honored if you wouldn't mind playing a little more," Bilbo said.
Thorin didn't reply, but he bent back to the harp and his fingers danced over the strings, and music washed over Bilbo like a cold, clear river. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and let it carry him into dark, deep places, where all was still and peaceful and no nightmares lurked.
: : :
When he woke again--slowly, gently--the light coming through the curtains was gray with morning, but music was still filling the room. Drifting up through sleep he became aware that there was a voice blending in with the harp music, as the shadows of leaves blend with sunlight to create dappled patterns on the ground. He didn't truly hear the words until the voice broke off and muttered something that sounded like a curse in an unknown tongue, then started again at the beginning:
If I had a kingdom, with treasure and with lands
I would make thee fine gloves of silver for thy hands,
A suit of mail that shimmers like water in the sun
To guard thee and to hold thee until the battle's won.
Alas, I have no kingdom, no silver and no gold
No haven from the bitter wind, no shelter from the cold,
But while we roam the wide world I shall give my part:
My sword, my harp, my honor, and a true and willing heart.
"That's lovely," Bilbo couldn't help but mumble, and there was a sharp jangle of strings, then silence.
"It's an old dwarvish song," said Thorin after a moment. "Just a sentimental bit of nonsense."
"I liked it quite a lot," Bilbo said, stifling a yawn. "What time is it?"
"Not quite dawn."
"You know, I feel that I could go downstairs and have some breakfast," said Bilbo, wonderingly. It had been a few days since he had felt well enough to actually get out of bed. "I feel so much better."
"The hobbit is interested in food. Truly, a miracle indeed."
Bilbo ignored Thorin's tone. "I wonder if they have bacon?" he mumbled, and yawned again.
"They won't be serving breakfast for a few more hours." There was a ripple of notes, and Thorin picked up once more the gentle tune he had been playing when Bilbo awoke. "Sleep a little more, if you can. Don't worry! I shall make sure you don't miss your meal."
Bilbo turned over to look at Thorin's hands on the harp, deftly weaving music from the strings. "I won't be able to keep my eyes open if you keep playing that song," he said as another yawn threatened to crack his jaws. "It's very...very soothing..."
As he drifted back into sleep he heard Thorin start to sing again, his voice almost too soft to be heard.
No dark dreams shall haunt thee while I guard thy rest
So close your eyes and sleep in peace, my jewel of the West.
: : :
Bilbo ducked as a sweet roll hurtled just over his head; Gloin caught it out of the air without looking and stuffed it in his mouth. The innkeeper looked distressed, and Bilbo could only give him an apologetic look: he had long since gotten used to dwarvish table manners.
"A toast to our healthy burglar, may the hair on his toes never grow thin!" Everyone roared approval at Dwalin's words and clinked tankards.
Bilbo took another bite of honey bread and couldn't help smiling at the company. "I have to thank you all, I really must," he said. "You've all been terribly kind while I was ill." Nori pounded him on the back in a friendly way and he tried not to wince. "I especially liked the chance to hear more dwarvish music," he added. "It's quite beautiful. The song Thorin was playing this morning, that Jewel of the West song..." He shook his head, "Truly exquisite."
"Jewel of the West?" Ori squinted thoughtfully. "I don't know of any such song."
"You know, the one that starts with 'If I had a kingdom...'" Bilbo sang the first stanza of the song. As he sang, the other dwarves stopped eating one by one and stared at him until he felt rather self-conscious. "Well, I'm not doing it justice, I'm afraid. You must know it, surely. He said it was an old traditional tune."
"I can't say as I do," Ori said, scratching his head. "Are you sure--" Here he broke off into a coughing fit as he intercepted both an elbow in the ribs from Dwalin and a Look from Thorin. When he was done coughing, he nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes, Jewel of the West! That very old song!" The other dwarves closed their mouths and chimed in with sounds of enthusiastic agreement. "Where I come from we call it 'If I Had a Kingdom,' of course, so it took me a moment to, um, recognize it."
"Well, it's beautiful," said Bilbo, helping himself to more bacon. "Such a sweet song."
"Very well then!" announced Thorin abruptly, standing up and banging the table so hard that all the plates (and the dwarves) leapt. "If we are done yammering about archaic melodies, some of us have preparations to make for Erebor, and no excuse to laze about in bed all day."
Bilbo glared at him, the bacon halfway to his mouth. "Laze--! Well, don't let me keep you, by any means!"
"I have no intention of it!" And with that, Thorin stomped out of the room.
Across the table from him, Kili couldn't seem to stop giggling for some reason. "Such a sweet song! So exquisite!" he chortled, until Gloin knocked his chair out from under him and sent him crashing to the ground.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain at last, smiled as Bilbo entered the vault deep within Erebor. "Hail and welcome, oh Royal Burglar! Look what I have found!" Since re-taking Erebor his heart had felt so light that it was easy to smile: he had taken back his own land, he was no longer a prince without a country. He had finally given his people a home, and was worthy to be their King at last. Who could not smile at such a thing?
Bilbo Baggins looked at him in silence for a long moment. He was not smiling--indeed, Thorin realized, he had hardly smiled at all since the death of the dragon. The realization made anger nibble at the edges of his joy, but he pushed it away.
"Did I not say that in the heart of Erebor my own harp awaited the touch of my hand once more?" He pulled off the brocade and the great golden harp glimmered in the light of the lamps. "Come closer, and I shall play for you songs deserving of a King and his burglar."
He sat down and ran his hands over the strings, and rich opalescent music sang through the room. Of course his harp would still be true, he thought, starting to play. Everything here had been waiting for him, for his return.
(Everything but the missing Arkenstone, the thought came into his mind, but he put it aside.)
He struck the strings and sang:
Let the wide world gaze in deep amaze at those fearless dwarves, but few
Who shall bear the fight that freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew.
Bilbo stepped into the room. "Thorin," he said. Thorin paid him no heed, lost in his music, in the golden magic of it. "King Thorin, there is an orc army outside your doors." Thorin closed his eyes and listened to the notes. "There are thousands of them. Thousands."
Thorin looked at him, and Bilbo blinked as though he had shouted, although he kept his voice even when he spoke. "Then they shall see what dwarves can do when they defend their home."
"There are other armies outside your gate," Bilbo said. "There are the hosts of the Elvenking, and the men of Laketown."
"Carrion crows," Thorin growled, and the golden strings under his hands growled with him. "Vultures waiting to pick the field clean."
"I believe--" Bilbo stopped and raised his voice to be heard over the martial harp, "--I believe that they would come to your aid. If they were asked."
Thorin brought his hands down on the strings like a blow and it cried out and was silent. "The King under the Mountain does not grovel to men," he said. "And most certainly not to elves."
"Not grovel." Bilbo took a quick step forward. "Request. A simple--"
"They turned their backs on us!" Thorin found he was standing, his voice a roar. "I asked them--I begged them, and they turned away! I will not be made a fool again, not if the orcs numbered more than the stars in the sky."
"If you were to give them something--a show of good faith--"
"You would have me purchase my life, like a haggler in the marketplace." Thorin's voice was low and cold. "You understand nothing of what my honor means, if you would have me sell it so cheaply."
Bilbo shook his head, and his mouth twisted. "Then they will die. The orcs will kill all your people--brave Balin and Dwalin, and merry Bofur, and gentle Kili and Fili--"
"--then they shall perish not as homeless wanderers, but dwarves of Erebor. They knew when they joined me what might lie ahead, and I will not demean their sacrifices by giving up the home we have finally reclaimed."
Bilbo's mouth worked in silence for a moment. "Thorin," he said, and it was nearly a sob. "Thorin. They will kill you." He said it as though it were a terrible thing to contemplate, as though it broke his heart, and somehow this made the anger in Thorin blaze into brightness once more.
"Then I shall die King under the Mountain!" he cried. "And when I arrive at the halls of my ancestors, I shall be able to hold my head without shame, and none shall say: There passes Thorin Oakenshield, who sold his honor to the elves. I cannot go like a beggar to those who have mocked me," he said. He meant to say it with all the rage in his heart, but somehow it came out as a plea. "I would betray all that I am, all that I have done to get here. I cannot."
Bilbo looked at him for a long time. "I understand," he said, and his face was strangely set and determined, with a compassion in his eyes that made Thorin turn away rather than bear it any longer.
Then he heard Bilbo say softly, "I liked your song in Laketown better, my King."
When he turned back, Bilbo was gone.
He clenched his fists--what had he expected, that the burglar would throw himself down and kiss his hand, beg forgiveness and pledge his fealty? Had he hoped that Bilbo would swear that Thorin was a king worth dying for?
And if he had, what kind of fool did that make him?
No. He was King under the Mountain. He was a dwarf of Erebor. He was Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, and he was in his rightful place. He sat down once more before the great shining harp, put his hands to the golden strands and began to play: a song of righteousness, a song of glorious death.
There was a snap, and two of the strings gave way beneath his shaking fingers, like the sound of a breaking heart.