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...In the morning Thráin stood before them. He had one eye blinded beyond cure, and he was halt with a leg-wound; but he said: “Good! We have the victory. Khazad-dûm is ours!”
But they answered: “Durin’s Heir you may be, but even with one eye you should see clearer. We fought this war for vengeance, and vengeance we have taken. But it is not sweet. If this is victory, then our hands are too small to hold it.”
— “Lord of the Rings,” Appendix section A III
~~~
Thorin doesn’t knock. But then, he never does.
“Have you seen the wizard?”
Bilbo is rummaging around in his box of maps, and doesn’t look up. Probably more research for that book of his, the one he’s been ‘nearly done’ with for almost twenty years. “Yes, I’ve seen him.”
“And sent him on his way, I hope,” Thorin circles the desk to stand behind Bilbo, one hand coming up to touch his shoulder, then fold over the back of his neck. It’s a hesitant, careful touch— sixty years can go by, and he can still touch Bilbo like this, like he’s afraid of even wanting to, afraid of what might happen if he does.
“Bilbo?”
Bilbo looks up, and smiles. “Yes. Yes, he’s gone.”
Thorin gives his neck a brief squeeze, and lets him go. “Good. We’ll have some peace, then. Not that he’ll leave us alone for long.”
“We might be without him for some time,” Bilbo says vaguely, turning back to his box. “Who knows when this business of Elrond’s will be finished.”
Thorin snorts, but doesn’t say anything. Typical behavior, to send out a mysterious call for a ‘very important meeting,’ ‘secrecy required,’ ‘come at once,’ when of course anyone could tell what the matter was. When the dwarves of Erebor had known that dark trouble was in the air, before the first black-robed messenger from the South had even dared come near.
Anyway, Bilbo’s heard all of this before.
“And Gloin and Gimli are going as well,” Bilbo says. “To see if Elrond has heard anything from Moria.”
Enough has been said about Moria, too. Thorin doesn’t like to think about it anymore.
“So Gandalf can nag at them on the journey there, very good. Frodo’s seeing them off, then?” Thorin settles himself on the bed, easing the heavy crown from his head and setting it down next to him. “Just as well. I’m glad to see he’s not here, sulking.”
Bilbo doesn’t answer. Which shouldn’t worry Thorin, as he knows too well how Bilbo gets when he’s in a contemplative map-reading or poetry-writing mood. But something about it makes Thorin sit up a little.
“I shouldn’t have let Gandalf see you at all,” Thorin says. “He’s upset you.”
“As if Gandalf can be prevented from seeing anyone he wants to see,” Bilbo laughs, but he doesn’t turn around. “And besides, he’s an old friend.”
“But he has upset you,” Thorin gets to his feet. “Old meddler. And so sure that the fate of the world could rest on one tiny trinket. I’ve never heard of a case of gold fever so bad.”
He comes up behind Bilbo and leans forward, resting his hands on the tabletop in front of him, bracketing the hobbit between his arms.
“It’ll all come to nothing, you’ll see,” Thorin says. It’s a lie, Bilbo probably knows it’s a lie, but it’s a lie Thorin will repeat as often as he needs to. “Leave it to the elves and wizards and men to decide what to do with their mess. We have plenty of our own troubles to deal with.”
“Like black riders, asking after me?” Bilbo says, so quietly Thorin can barely hear him. Bilbo seems to be holding himself away from Thorin’s body, just a little, but he’s so close that Thorin can almost feel the warmth of him all down his chest. “Like old alliances being called up, and secret meetings? Like Gandalf throwing my ring in the fire and saying that it’s—”
“We can handle the riders,” Thorin says, low and angry. “And anything else that crawls out of the Ash Mountains. Besides, as far as they know, you’re tucked deep in Eriador. And that’s far West for them to travel.”
“So we just sit here and wait? Wait for them to poke around the Shire, terrify my neighbors and no doubt ruin the Baggins name even further with their nasty questions? Wait for one of your subjects to be tempted by their offer and give me up? Or just wait until Gandalf and Elrond have decided what to do, and come calling here again?”
Impatient, Thorin takes a step forward and wraps his arms around Bilbo. Bilbo stiffens for a moment, then lets out a sigh and relaxes against Thorin at last.
“What if he’s right?” Bilbo says.
Thorin drops his face into the hobbit’s hair, as fine and thick as it was when they first met. Sixty years ago, now. Bilbo has been in Erebor for more than half his life. And, Gandalf tells them, by the standards of his own kind Bilbo is an old hobbit. Much older, in fact, than he looks.
Thorin feels the years. He’s lived a long time and will live for even longer, perhaps. But his hair is grayer than it was when he first retook his throne. His old injuries pain him, on wet days, or cold ones. Fili and Kili have grown into their beards, and Balin is— well, Balin was slowing down (as much as Balin could ever slow down) before he embarked on his fool’s errand to Moria. Time takes a toll on them all, no matter how long-lived.
And the basic fact is that Bilbo doesn’t look as old as he should. Easy to forget when surrounded by those who live into their 300s during times of peace. But Gandalf has reminded them all, curse him.
“I don’t care if he is,” Thorin says, leaning down to murmur in Bilbo’s ear. “If the Dark Lord needs his ring to come to power, then we’ll hide it. What’s one ring in all the treasure of Erebor? He could never find it here.”
Bilbo doesn’t say anything. His hands are gripping Thorin’s arms tight now, like he needs them to hold himself up. As if Thorin would believe that for a second, when Bilbo’s proved his bravery time and time again.
“He could,” Bilbo sighs. “I mean, he probably could. As much as a disembodied spirit can do anything which, Gandalf says, is surprisingly possible. And I don’t think you’d care for it much. All those orcs and trolls rummaging through your treasure. They’re not ones to admire fine craftsmanship, generally.”
“Hmm,” Thorin says. “Probably not. But we’ll never have to find out, one way or another.”
“No,” Bilbo says firmly. “We won’t.”
Thorin is about to agree, when something in Bilbo’s tone freezes him. And the pauses, the gaps, the way Bilbo won’t really look at him, they slide into a terrible order. But it’s not... Surely he wouldn’t have...
He lets Bilbo go, gently, and takes a step back. Bilbo turns, and Thorin can see for the first time how frightened he is.
“Thorin—”
“Frodo should be back by now,” Thorin says slowly. “If he was just seeing them as far as Dale, he should have been back long ago. Where is he?”
And when Bilbo says nothing, just looks at him— “What have you done?”
And now’s the time for Bilbo to deny it, now’s the time for him to laugh at Thorin for being ridiculous. But he’s not doing any of those things, he’s just looking at Thorin.
“I gave the ring to Frodo,” Bilbo says simply.
“No,” Thorin’s hands are shaking. “No, you can’t have.”
“I did,” Bilbo’s chin comes up, less scared now than stubborn, as he always gets when Thorin disagrees with his nonsense. “Gandalf wouldn’t take it himself, so I gave it to Frodo and sent him along, to see it to Rivendell.”
“How could you?” Thorin feels, oddly, like the room is rocking under his feet. Like the whole mountain is rocking under his feet. “I’ve seen you with it, you never let it out of your sight. And now you’ve just let it go? Made a present of it to those who’ll never let you see it again? Given it to Frodo? I don’t believe you.”
“It was hard,” Bilbo admits. “Harder than I thought it’d be. Gandalf was—” a shadow crosses Bilbo’s face for an instant “—he was quite wizard-y, for a moment there. But I did it.”
Thorin reels back a few steps, and sits down on the bed. Rather harder than he means to, and his crown bounces off the furs with a crash, gems and metal clanging against the stone floor. Thorin doesn’t bother to pick it up.
“I had to do it,” Bilbo says, “I had to. The ring has to be... seen to. If it isn’t, if he ever gets it back, then the whole world will fall.”
“Let it all burn,” Thorin growls out. “I couldn’t care less if the whole of it was in flames.”
Bilbo gives him a small smile, but it’s not a particularly happy one. “I know,” he comes forward, standing in between Thorin’s knees. He reaches out for Thorin, and cradles his face in both hands. Thorin leans into the touch and closes his eyes, for all that he’s so angry he almost can’t breathe.
“But they will find out that I’m here, one way or another. And you might think we could hold our own, against whatever mad number of orcs and goblins come to Erebor when they do,” Bilbo is saying, one thumb gently running back and forth over Thorin’s cheek. “But I’ve seen you on your deathbed before, Thorin. I can’t let that happen again.”
Thorin opens his eyes, looking up at Bilbo. “You won’t watch me fall in battle, but I’m expected to stand here and watch you fade away?” He wraps a hand around Bilbo’s wrist. “Is that it?”
“Yes,” Bilbo says simply. “I’m very selfish, you know. In that way. Or just when it comes to you, I suppose.”
Thorin closes his eyes again. He can’t bear to look at Bilbo anymore. “How long?” he asks.
“Gandalf isn’t sure, there’s no way to—”
“How long?”
“Years,” Bilbo admits. His hands are shaking too, just a little. Thorin can feel Bilbo’s pulse jumping under his fingers, fast and strong. “Maybe just one, maybe decades. There’s no way to be sure. Gollum survived without the ring for a long time. I might have the same luck.”
“Luck,” Thorin repeats dully. “I don’t believe in it.”
Bilbo’s free hand slides around the line of his jaw, and down his neck. Bilbo wraps his fingers around the gold band there, tugging at it gently. Obedient, even though he doesn’t think he’s ever hated him more, Thorin opens his eyes.
“How could you do this?” Thorin asks. He means for it to come out much stronger: a challenge, a roar. But it’s a whisper. Less than that, even.
“I had to,” Bilbo’s no louder. “By my thinking—” he stops, clears his throat, “—by my thinking, every day that we’ve had together is one that we’ve only managed through sheer, insane luck. Because really, I could have lost you during the Battle of Five Armies; I should have lost you then.”
Thorin says nothing. He still feels strangely guilty about it. About the days of terror, when he was insensible and too hurt to know what was happening around him, but Bilbo was awake and aware and certain that Thorin would die.
Bilbo steps closer. His hand tightens around Thorin’s necklace, knuckles digging into Thorin’s collarbone. “But I didn’t. And we have had—”
Thorin lets go of Bilbo’s wrist and puts his hands over Bilbo’s sides instead, registering distantly the span of them over Bilbo’s ribs before sliding them around to press against his back. Strong, alive. His.
Bilbo is trying to collect himself. “We have had so many more days than I would have dared hope for.”
He can’t take any more of this, suddenly. He pulls Bilbo to him, and Bilbo goes easily. Letting go of Thorin’s necklace he sends his hands through Thorin’s hair, crawling up into Thorin’s lap, wrapping his legs around Thorin’s waist and burying his face in his neck.
“I had hoped for more,” Thorin says, throat closed so tight that the words come out ragged.
“Of course you had,” Biblo mutters, lips moving against Thorin’s skin. “Because you’re greedy and unreasonable.”
“Of course,” Thorin says.
Bilbo sits back a little so he can look into Thorin’s face. “Tell me you understand.”
He doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. And he knows that he will spend centuries not understanding, he can see them laid out before him now with perfect clarity. But he also knows what he must say, now. “I understand.”
“And tell me that you won’t brood over this,” Thorin scoffs and tries to look away, but Bilbo guides his chin back up to look him in the eyes. “Thorin. I’m serious. The ring might not still be here, but I don’t think it’s likely that we’ll be able to escape whatever trouble’s brewing in Mordor. And these stubborn dwarves will need a king to lead them.”
“I won’t brood,” Thorin says. Another lie. “I will be King under the Mountain. I will lead.”
Bilbo smiles, weakly. His hands are in Thorin’s hair again, pushing through to cradle the back of his head.
“Tell me something in return,” Thorin says, at last.
“Anything you like,” Bilbo says.
“Tell me you’ll stay. Until... until the time comes.”
Bilbo’s face crumples. Always so brave, this hobbit. Always too brave. And always surprising Thorin, somehow. Just when Thorin thinks he’s past surprising.
“You know that I will.”
And Thorin pulls Bilbo to him, taking this moment. While he can.
~~~
“...Yet things might have gone otherwise, and far worse. When you think of the great Battle of Pelennor, do not forget the battles in Dale and the valor of Durin’s Folk. Think of what might have been. Dragon-fire and savage swords in Eriador, night in Rivendell. There might be no Queen in Gondor. We might now hope to return from the victory here only to ruin and ash.”
—Gandalf, to Frodo and Gimli in Minas Tirith. “Lord of the Rings,” Appendix section A III