Durin's Champion

A/N-This is a companion to the previous chapter, and the pair will probably serve as the basis of an AU I'd like to play around in for a while. Many Many thanks to Paranoid_Fridge and Mephestopheles for reading through this to keep it comprehensible and for indulging my rambling.

Scars.

Bilbo Baggins was covered in scars. It did not seem right. This gentle hobbit from the sweet green pastures of the Shire should not have borne scars from battle and war.

It was not right.

Yet, his arms and legs were mapped with a maze of pink lines that would have seemed fitting as dents or scratches on armor. They would have been damage to be proud of then, a sign of all the fights he had fought and won. They could have been displayed and relived in tales. They could have been a sign of how far he had come from his tidy smial under the hill.

But they were on flesh instead.

Even without Óin's softly spoken pronouncement, Thorin knew that few, if any, of the wounds had been treated. They had the rough look of infection still lingering about them. Bilbo had been alone.

There was an open wound on his side, barely held together by bandages and small stitches that could still easily kill the fragile hobbit, but it was the scars that Thorin continued to observe. They were minor damage, truly. None had ever been life-threatening, unless a particularly virulent infection had occurred. Yet they ate at his conscience. The still weeping wound was a reference to a single fight. That Bilbo lived at all meant that he had been found just after it happened. Bilbo had not been alone while the pain of that injury washed him into the dark.

The others though.

Some were fully knit, some still tenderly pink, a few still scabbed. Bilbo had been alone for those. He had been alone for a long time. He had been injured and lost in the wilderness with no one to watch over him or help him heal.

His little hobbit that he had so rudely dismissed upon introduction had become so much more than any of them had thought, and now the proof of that worth and strength was writ permanently upon flesh. Guilt, his unwelcome but well deserved companion for the past few months bubbled again. There had only been so many ways to berate himself when Bilbo's fate was dangling unknown. The uncertainty of it allowed him to cling tenaciously to the thought that he and the wizards were wrong in their assumption. After all, it made no sense for a lone halfling to challenge the Pale Orc.

Nonsense or not, it had happened.

Thorin's remembrance of that fight was clouded by the haze of healing herbs and fever that he had fought through in the weeks after. In fact, his memory was now built largely from what the company had repeated to him when he asked. His own words were filtered through others' minds and rebuilt as fuzzy memory.

Some glimpses were still clear.

Azog's glee above him as Thorin lost the struggle to maintain the block and the blade slid into his chest. Óin later assured him that the injury, had it been a finger's width away in any direction or a shred larger, or had Tauriel not already been running to him, begged by Kili, he would have died. It was not a vision he would forget in this life.

He remembered the eagles overhead, wings spread and piercing cries heralding the victory they would soon achieve.

But mostly he recalled seeing Bilbo in the blue glow of his blade, a face bereft of his accustomed wit and charm, stalking after Azog. Even if he pretended sometimes that his burglar had escaped home, whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the glass-eyed focus that had set Bilbo running. He knew the hobbit's intent. He had tried to speak, to call out, and failed.

Believing himself scant breaths from death, he had wanted nothing more than to speak to his hobbit once more, to beg forgiveness and offer his thanks for all that had passed between them. Instead he had seen the small solitary thing leaving, not even hesitating as he passed near the king.

Now here Bilbo lay, their roles reversed. After months separated, the sight of Bilbo, riddled with old injuries and floating just above death, truly did not make sense to him.

Despite what his nephews insisted in bothersome whispers, Thorin had not been more than appropriately grateful for Bilbo's foolhardy rescue on the slope of the Misty Mountains. If it seemed so it was a result of the contrast in his treatment of the smallest company member. He had, of course, appreciated that Bilbo's interference allowed him to keep his head attached, but it had not been more. If the hobbit was part of the company then such behavior was part and parcel of the contract. Even if he had been ill suited to carry it out. Even if it had been almost certain death he had faced

If the burglar's eyes had lit up in relief as Thorin awoke and rose, it was no shock. The dwarf was aware he had been nearly to the void when the wizard laid hands upon him and brought him back.

When the same joy and pride in those eyes had wilted under Thorin's admittedly ill-timed attempt at a dramatic apology, it should not have etched itself behind the King's eyes.

And yet.

Beorn's strange house unsettled the company. The shapeshifter carried a conflicting aura of safety and violence, which the dwarves could feel, and which worried at them all while they recuperated for the short days they stayed.

Bilbo though, seemed utterly content. It was irritating. The hobbit was as pleased with the gardens and pastures as Thorin had ever seen him. The glow inside him was so bright that as the others spent time with him they walked away cheered by it. It seemed that the bucolic peace of the house soothed Bilbo's soul like the smooth stone that Thorin yearned for each day.

Before they left it appeared that Bilbo had spoken to each of the others, dragging them out to look at flowers and fields and bees. His infectiously glittering smile had brightened them each in turn, and had Thorin been asked, he could not have denied that the Hobbit had done as much to recuperate the company as the fresh bread and undisturbed sleep.

Thorin did not examine why he declined all of the burglar's attempts to treat him similarly.

He had walked the Greenwood as a dwarfling, merrily chasing after birds and beasts with his siblings beside him. As soon as he stepped under the cover of the trees, he knew that its name had been changed with good reason. Mirkwood was as changed as it could be. It was a crypt-like horror, haunted by whispers and danger.

The path was elusive, constantly trying to lead them astray; surely some witchcraft of the elves to confound their enemies.

They slogged on, food dwindling. His Company grew tense, fractious.

By the time they lost the path entirely it mattered little. Even if the path had been directly beneath their boots they were too overwhelmed with fear and hate to follow it. Part of him was glad to hear Ori's shout and see the spiders descending on them. An external opponent rallied them.

For a moment they were cheered, expecting a victory over the foul creatures. Too hopeful. Spider poison felled them easily.

Strength failing him, silk wrapping him layer by layer into his funeral shroud, Thorin realized too late that Bilbo was left alone, high in the tree the spiders had appeared from. His panic was short lived as the poison finished its job and he fell from the world.

Rescue was a bewildering thing.

Bilbo moved with a surety that he had never shown before, shouting taunts and hurling rocks. Thorin watched the hobbit, astounded at the transformation. From a grocer and a bother, he had become their protector, guarding them against the fell things with his short blade as if he had always wielded it. The flailing panic at Azog had been successful, but was no more than controlled than a babe learning to walk.

This was new.

Thorin watched Bilbo when he should have watched the trees, unable to stop. A small bit of Hobbit propriety had collapsed, and revealed the steel within him. Their burglar could hardly be blamed when the woodelves captured them.

Thranduil's cells were not the torment that most races set aside for prisoners.

That irritated Thorin all the more. It denied him an avenue to hate the Elf-King. He was kept separated from the others, some place deeper and more hollowly cold. He had been with the company initially, but after cursing and threatening Thranduil extensively in Khuzdul, he had been taken elsewhere. Then came several long days interrupted only by the guards delivering food at precise intervals. The displaced Dwarven-King grew lethargic, regretting quickly his choice to let loose his temper.

He must have appeared far worse than he was as he leaned against the wall beside the door, limp and wrestling with despair at reclaiming the mountain. He must have, because Bilbo slipped his hand through the bars and shakily brushed Thorin's wrist with his fingertips, whispering his name in obvious fear. That he had clung to that small hand was something he tried not to think about in his long hours alone.

After his initial confidence that Bilbo would free them, the cool dark and silence ate at his conviction.

But he had appeared once more. He always appeared when he was needed most.

Bilbo Baggins, against all odds, had once more arrived to save them.

The tears did not fall until after his burglar had slipped away to continue seeking their escape. The solitude between visits was more bearable for the interruption by a gleaming smile and quick witted banter on their prospects.

Bilbo always woke him with a gentle touch in the weeks they were trapped. Thorin always clung to his hand for a moment. As the time stretched, he knew that he clung longer with each appearance, which were similarly growing more frequent: sometimes twice or thrice a day.

Then there was the midnight visit when, without thinking, his thumb brushed along the hobbit's wrist, and, feeling the sharp contours of bones, he realized how thin it was. "If you collapse of hunger you'll be of no use to us. Take this." He pressed a bit of fruit into the burglar's hand and continued, "If you collapse we'll have to make a deal with that tree-shagger or die."

Bilbo smirked, "You'd make a deal with him? You? Thorin Oakenshield?"

"No." They both just smiled for a moment, and Thorin broke first, "So ask the others as well, unless you want us to die here."

In Laketown Thorin learned Bilbo had never mentioned it to them.

Kept afloat as he had been in the dungeons by Bilbo's presence and quiet conversations, Thorin could not help but nod at the irony of their escape plan. Orcs and rapids did their best to end the quest, but the company persisted as the stubbornness of dwarves often did.

They crawled ashore, sopping wet, cold and angry. There had been a number of insults tossed at their burglar during the river trip. Thorin was inclined to agree with them, half drowned as he was. Belatedly, he realized that Bilbo had answered none of the insults, and panicked, shouting for him.

Long ago, even before the trolls, while crossing a small stream, Bilbo had admitted that his kind did not swim, and were prone to drown in even slow shallow water.

His concern as he checked for injuries on the company's smallest member silenced the rest. Perhaps the others had recalled the same confession. Thorin, consoled that there was no visible injury, and that, while he was freezing and deeply unhappy, Bilbo was well, shouted all the insults he had thought on the river. He raged until it seemed like blisters would raise on his tongue from the heat of it.

It was a better choice than to examine why he had been so worried.

The hobbit had not simply freed them from the elves, but had, again, willingly placed himself in death's path to do it. By the time they were sailing for the town, Bilbo had returned to his self, wit and merriment taunting the others. But they did not speak.

Bilbo fell sick in Laketown.

The company discouraged him from visiting, memories of his tirade echoing in their ears as loudly as they echoed in the king's.

Balin's reproach of who it was that had just been sent into the mountain shook Thorin. He had tried to avoid speaking to the halfling while they travelled the last stretch to the mountain. He had tried to return to the safe distance he had maintained at Beorn's home. Bilbo, unaware of the dwarf's goals, had easily thwarted them.

His resolve had crumbled when the sun had set, and hope had gone with it. Abandoning the key, he gave the map to Bilbo, hand lingering as he refused the urge to look for the comfort he had known in his cell. That his hobbit managed to find their way in nearly destroyed him; he knew what must come after. This was why he had resisted any contrary impulse to draw their burglar closer than the small touches he allowed himself. At the end of the quest, he had known he would have to send Bilbo down to Smaug.

Being unseen for sixty years had not convinced Thorin that the Wyrm was dead. Dwarves were rarely so lucky. He was sending Bilbo into death.

Alone.

Again.

So he hid behind thick mental walls, and did his best not to hear Balin say that name.

Then the mountain shook, and he knew.

The difference in his mind when he abruptly rushed down the passage to help was dizzying. He had not acknowledged it, not to himself and certainly not aloud, but his actions told another story. He pulled away from the rest, racing to the hobbit's aid, unthinking of what was there except him.

After so long away from the splendid riches of the mountain, he had forgotten the draw it had over his mind. After so many years of dreaming of the great treasure hoard of his ancestors and all that he could do to right past wrongs once it was his, he barely noticed as its seduction slipped beneath his vow never to become Thror.

Once he had seen that Bilbo was alive, the need, the soul deep need, to possess that wealth, and the Arkenstone first and foremost, overwhelmed him. He could have killed the halfling there on the platform, hesitating, failing to convince Thorin of his innocence. He might have, had Smaug not shifted the hoard's hold over his mind.

They were almost enough. But no. Smaug survived, taunting and enraged, and flown towards the Lake.

Even before the Wyrm fell, Thorin was withdrawing, pulled inexorably back to the wealth of the mountain. His people's legacy. His hoard. All of it his own. It called and sang to him, whispering of the greatness he deserved and the deeds he could achieve with it at his fingertips. It seeped into every corner of his mind. He reveled in the glow that was already filling him and edged away from the others to return to the mountain.

Thorin was still sitting, watching Bilbo on the bed when he heard Erebor awaken. An icy winter dawn would be breaking on the walls of the mountain any moment, not that it would reach the room where the hobbit was laid. It had been only a few hours since the Wizards had appeared. They had come in the night, Radagast requesting the King's presence in spite of the hour. Even before the guard had finished speaking Thorin had known. There was little other reason to wake him so late in the night. Bundled into a blanket and hidden beneath Gandalf's robes they had brought Bilbo back to Erebor, half healed and unconscious.

A set of rooms in the royal hall was claimed for him, and if either wizard had found it odd that they had been left unoccupied but maintained, neither commented.

The guards were ordered to secrecy until it was known if Bilbo would live, and were sent running for Óin, still the only healer in residence at Erebor who Thorin trusted. He knew the mountain kept secrets no better than a sieve kept water, but he could stall the inevitable storm until they knew more, and until the rest of the company had been informed.

Thorin smoothed his hair and his beard, contemplated retrieving the crown from his chambers, and waited. Orders had been left for the rest of the company to be awoken at dawn and summoned to his presence. Most would understand instantly. The rest would know as soon as they saw where they were being led.

His ever-bold nephews had started calling these rooms Bilbo's the moment they were cleaned. They had continued to, even after the mountain had given up hope of the hobbit returning, but their voices broke slightly sometimes.

Gandalf had told him briefly what they had found, what they had learned while following the hobbit. Had he not been nearly a month ahead of his pursuers by the time they found the trail, they would have found him far sooner. As it was, they had discovered him in the Grey Mountains, bleeding, near death, insensible, and lying beside the cold corpse of the Pale Orc. Bilbo had nearly decapitated him. If the hobbit's grip on life had not been so tenuous, Thorin would have regretted that they had not returned with Azog's head.

Waiting with him through the night, Thorin had decided not to share that yet. Gandalf had done all he could, but the hobbit still slept. If he was lost, then the hunting of Azog would be told as he was returned to the earth; if he survived, he might not want it known. Hobbits were strange creatures like that, averse to accolades.

That was one of the few certainties he had.

He lit another lantern just before the first of the Company arrived.

His nephews were cautious, staring intently until Bilbo had taken enough steady breaths to soothe their fears. They were only just beginning to believe what they saw when more arrived. Each member of the company undertook the same process. Initially they were awash in relief that he had been found, then puzzled by his state, then knowing eyes noted the bandages and injuries, noted the haggard appearance, and then noted Thorin keeping watch.

No one commented on the King sitting awake through the night, for which Thorin was grateful. Just as they had not questioned when he had refused to acknowledge that Bilbo might be lost. He did not know what answer to give if he was asked.

Soft questions were raised, which Óin answered in gentle tones, refusing to give a clear prognosis. Balin reminded the room of the importance of secrecy until his fate was known, then mentioned the arrival of a delegation from Dale later that day.

Thorin had hardly looked away from Bilbo since the others entered, not wanting to see doubt or fear echoing his own. He glanced up at the tone Balin used, not wanting to reclaim his crown and be the King. As long as the cursed thing was sitting on the desk in his chambers he could be Thorin Oakenshield instead. He exhaled when he heard Fili declare that he was happy to meet with Bard.

They all drifted away after a time. He must have made all the appropriate responses since none of them bothered him to sleep or leave.

Or he was more imposing than he thought.

In the brightened room, the King of Erebor stared at the fragile halfling on the bed, noticing the scars across his face and neck. They were more recent, and mostly shallow. One was not. It ran up his cheek and into his hairline, barely missing his ear. Unthinking, Thorin brushed the curls aside.

Guilt returned.

His hobbit's curls were longer than he had ever seen. Most were snarled into a mat on the back of his head, another proof of how alone he had been. It was several minutes before he realized he had been gently untangling curls. He hesitated.

After everything that had passed between them, he had no right to touch the hobbit without permission.

"Uncle?" he spun to see Kili's young face haunted. "Uh, why wasn't Bilbo wearing his mithril?"

The question took a moment to process. Realizing that Kili was asking about when he was hit rather than the current moment, Thorin just muttered, "He was." Not knowing where Bilbo had been or what he had done, Kili frowned, forcing the King to explain what was wrong with their burglar. He explained how the mithril stopped the blade from piercing, making the injury more like being hit with a war hammer. He explained how the force had been great enough to shear open flesh over the broken ribs. He explained how the wizards had used their power to keep him alive, and brought him to the mountain, hoping, but not certain that the hobbit would survive in the care of a traditional healer. There had not been enough strength within the hobbit to overcome both the acute and general ailments.

Kili pressed for more, increasingly shaken by the severity of the wound, but Thorin would not detail the foe. Eventually he conceded, and went to leave, parting with a quiet reassurance. "I do not think he would mind you helping his hair, Uncle... ...You should."

It was bliss.

The quiet murmured song of gold and gems and wealth cocooned him. All it asked in return was that he keep it whole. He was more than happy to oblige. He would keep the wealth safe and secure within the mountain where it would be protected. Where it would be exalted.

The others though. They were dark blurs obscuring the glow of the treasure. They would secret it away, take away from him the joy of his hoard. They could not be trusted.

He watched. He prowled. He threatened.

They flinched away from him, eyes blown wide to see the power he held. The power the gold filled him with. The longer he spent away from the untrustworthy, the deeper the bliss ran. It wrapped him in a bright shroud of happiness he hid behind while the gold spoke to visitors and strangers alike. The further it wrapped him, the less he minded allowing the hoard to deal with the others.

Except for one.

One of them came to him each day, but was no shadow. He was a gleaming point of piercing white that lanced through the shroud with persistent words and smiles. For him, he would push back the thrall of gold and speak for himself. He would keep that one safe so he could remain with the hoard, protected, secure, bright and glowing like the gold he would surround him with.

When the gold sang in his veins of betrayal and the visitor of light turned to another traitorous shadow keeping him from what ought to be his; the tidy nest of golden bliss turned to a tangle of brambles. Trapped in it, hounded by the words of the shadows who had plagued him for so long, he had escaped. Memories pecked at him, worried at him, slipping within the veil that protected him from fear. The words of the bright creature struck the death blow, and the haze of gold collapsed to leave him trembling in the aftermath.

Then the guilt swept over Thorin and he thought that he would drown in it.

Returning to the world after so long in the dark of healing potions and pain was terrifying. The last thing he had seen had been Bilbo striding across the ice while he bled, unable to even call to him.

Healers bustled over him until they were convinced that the King Under the Mountain seemed determined to live. Then there was an endless blur of kin and Company members sitting beside him to tell stories and fill the holes in Thorin's memory. When the sun set without the burglar visiting, he was forced to ask why. Kili and Balin looked away, suffering.

"We don't know where he is. He's not been seen. Not since Ravenhill." Kili said quietly to his boots.

Furious with himself for not asking after his hobbit first, he informed them of what he had seen, and demanded that Gandalf be found.

At least he had not been left thinking that Bilbo hated him. His arrival on Ravenhill, the words he spoke, and the look they had shared before hearing Fili were enough to reassure him. He knew he did not deserve it, but was certain that he had the hobbit's forgiveness.

None but the wizards gave his story credence. His kin bit back their instincts and did not say aloud that if Bilbo had gone after the retreating orcs, he was dead by now. None commented on the absence of a corpse since they all knew it would have been taken as food for the retreating forces. Saying it aloud would have been too much. Thorin could not bring himself to give them the full details, could not tell them that Bilbo had not gone after the orcs in the blind rage of battle. He had gone to kill Azog, his very being consumed with a need for fiery vengeance that Thorin had recognized reflecting what had for long defined his own soul.

The wizards went.

A raven arrived after a few weeks placing them to the north of the mountain, trail found, but uncertain of the hobbit's fate.

Thorin returned to health. He helped to clear the most crucial chambers and passages. They held a coronation at Yule. He stopped speaking of Bilbo, unwilling to subject himself to the repulsive blend of pity and resignation that darkened the eye of them all, even Kili.

He overheard Dwalin talking to the princes, reminding them that "Bilbo was a gentle thing. He had no place goin' out in the wilds. Not without us." The use of the past tense hurt more than Thorin would admit.

He lost his temper at times, but less than he had before the reclamation. He tried to push it from his mind.

There were times during that month between awakening and speaking again, when Bilbo, still recovering, would catch his eye and leave him an opportunity. The hobbit just quirked an eyebrow or tweaked his nose and almost inclined his head towards a door, but did it without judgement or censure.

Both of them knew that there was unfinished business between them.

That was hard to deny after their aborted conversation. It was compounded by how abruptly Thorin had cut off his confession about Ravenhill. It was aggravated by the sad, pensive look Bilbo got when his fingers idly found the beads in his hair. They weren't courtship beads, the impropriety of plaiting those into another's hair without speaking at length first would have been too much for his freshly crowned head to withstand.

They were Durin beads.

Which was, in many ways, a far broader claim. Balin made allusion to it, but did not speak directly. Dwalin gave him a substantial look when Thorin was caught watching the hobbit from the hall.

The burglar in question had been staring into a roaring fire, wrapped in dwarvish attire-his only option until spring caravans arrived. He had a tender half smile curling his lips as he gently spun one of the beads. His hair glinted gold as it framed his face and tumbled onto his shoulders. After a quiet dinner with the rest of the company, Bilbo had slipped away on his own, leaving the others to assume that he needed rest. Thorin had followed not long after with a vague reference to consulting Dis by raven. Pretense, obviously. He had gone hoping to find the strength to continue their conversation.

But he had frozen on the threshold, and he had been found by Dwalin.

The smirk playing at the cheek of his greatest friend provoked a faint flush and forced him to walk away instead of joining the solitary hobbit.

Fili was the one to finally comment outright. He and his brother had walked into Thorin's chambers after luncheon and spoken without preamble. "Do you want the teams in the treasury to watch for a set of Durin beads for you while they sort the gold?" Thorin stuttered into silence without giving any answer. So Fili continued, "Since Bilbo is wearing yours currently, and it's a bit odd that the King of the Line of Durin can't be bothered to wear family beads, that is. So, do you want the team to look? Or would you prefer to commission something from the silversmiths once the work halls have been cleared and restored?"

"Or maybe you should just commission a different set of beads, Uncle." Kili always was the bolder of the two. His raised eyebrows and smirk attested to that.

"Or will you be asking for them back from our hobbit?" Fili continued as if his brother had not spoken. He was being teamed up on by his own kin. "If you plan to, I'd do so soon, yesterday I heard him asking about how long winter lasts here."

"I think you should do something in mithril. Maybe with amber. That's a nice bridge for him since he doesn't like gems much."

"The first caravans from Dale will leave by the end of Rethe unless the winter is particularly bad."

"But I think gold might suit his colors better. He does favor reds and yellows. But I guess he should get used to wearing Durin Blue now."

"He hasn't admitted as much, but we think he has sent a raven to Bard about possible travel arrangements."

"Rose gold would be gorgeous. Or, it wouldn't be traditional, but polished carved oak would be brilliant symbology for you two."

"You should at least talk to him."

"I think amad told me that the shards from the polishing of the Arkenstone were kept, but I don't think that'd be quite the thing given your history."

"You need to wear Durin beads no matter what happens between you two, though. Do you want -" Thorin finally snapped and jerked to his feet with the chair screeching protest behind him. His nephews fell silent instantly.

Bold, but not stupid.

For a moment he considered punishing them for such impertinence, but knew he would only damn himself. Instead he walked out of the chamber with all the regal presence he could cobble together. He heard his nephew's giggling echo behind him as he sought Balin.

His advisor confirmed his hobbit's curiosity in winter weather in the mountains.

He was a coward. Bilbo had hunted the scourge of his family across the wastes of the north alone in the middle of winter, and Thorin was incapable of completing a sentence.

It was an important sentence, but that did not alleviate the mantra in his head every time he saw the hobbit and failed to speak to him. After so long, he had over-thought his own feelings. By the time he and Bilbo spoke in the tower chamber he had lost the confidence to give voice to what he had discovered. After they had kissed, even his best efforts felt inadequate.

Initially he had meant to admit that he had discovered how much he had come to rely on his burglar and in how many ways.

Now, with his lips still tingling hours after they had broken apart in the tower, with Bilbo's declaration to stay wrapping him in comfort and certainty, his intended confession felt useless. For the first time since Bilbo had vanished into the secret passage, Thorin felt secure. He had lost his footing and his purpose with Bilbo estranged, then missing, then sitting just beyond his reach. Only now, seeing at last that the embers of affection he had hoped to encourage between them turned to a roaring blaze did he feel confident again.

The chance that the fire might fail had plagued him. Now that same fire kept him aglow.

His hand reached towards his braid, and a bead that hung in another's hair. Instinct. He had worn them for decades.

Impertinent or not, his nephews had the right of it. He needed to wear family beads, but he had no intention of taking them from Bilbo until he could replace them with something better. He smiled, broader and truer than he had in months and went in pursuit of his nephews. In a way, he was going to get to punish them after all.

Bilbo's chambers were directly beside the King's. If Erebor had been less cavernously empty of residents that winter, Thorin was certain his beloved would have protested having so much space when he could make do with more modest rooms perfectly fine, thank you very much. The rest of the company was so accustomed to calling them Bilbo's, no one had mentioned that the suite was more commonly called the Consort's Court.

He would have blushed himself into a faint to hear it.

That knowledge was why Thorin had so carefully planned for the evening.

His nephews, rather than being upset with their task had delighted in it. Even Fili had whooped and tackled his uncle, shouting confidence and reassurances. From then, it had taken less than a fortnight for them to find what he wanted. Recruiting the rest of the company had helped too, even if he had grimaced at his intentions being shared.

Whatever efforts it had taken to achieve were irrelevant, because Thorin had four beads stashed in a small, silk lined box.

Bilbo was seated on the ground, occasionally tending the small hearth to keep the flames cheerfully flickering. Thorin could have made a more functional heat source, but it would have lacked the cozy domesticity the hobbit seemed to exude in Erebor. Each time he added more wood, he would lean back against Thorin's leg with a faint curl of contentment playing at his lips. They passed a pipe back and forth in silence. The bag of Longbottom leaf Bard had sent had left Bilbo babbling with delight as he insisted on introducing the King to it.

"That way I can be certain you'll see it imported." He claimed.

Thorin was certain that with Bilbo setting the trend and the coffers of Erebor supporting it, the Shire would need to increase the yield within a few years. He handed back the pipe and trailed his fingers up to curly hair. For just a moment, he paused at the beads, then asked, "Bilbo, would you like me to explain these?" and ran his thumb across the ridge of the braid.

Bilbo practically flailed turning about. "How many times have I asked you to do so?"

"Many."

"And how many times have you told me you could not yet?"

"Exactly as many."

"So do you even need to ask?"

"I am attempting to lend this conversation a sense of formality, Master Burglar."

"Then don't allow me to stop you, oh King." Bilbo rose to tap playfully against the crown.

Thorin kept a hand in Bilbo's hair and quickly kissed the smirk into submission before letting his hand move to the bead that dangled by his chin.

"You were correct that I had braided your hair, which does not surprise you I'm certain. The braids themselves do not carry much specific meaning. These two," he gestured to the simpler set, "are generally considered convenience when worn like this. The other two are a form of a warrior braid."

"They look like Fili's."

"Yes, he also wears non-specific warrior braids since his mother is not here yet, and she has asked to have the honor of recognizing the actions of the boys with me. You have seen enough fighting in our quest to easily justify these." Thorin cleared his throat, "For what happened in the North… for that you deserve greater. I have not made public what happened while you were... away. Most rumors placed you at the tail of the retreating army, picking off stragglers as you believed yourself unwelcome at Erebor."

Bilbo frowned, started to speak, and frowned again.

"Does that explain some reactions?"

"Yes."

"If you will let me have your actions announced, and I desire to, then you will need to wear a five strand braid here instead as part of recognizing what you achieved. Don't worry, I am happy to do it for you any time you wish if you know not how." That earned him a gentle shove.

"So the different braids and styles you all wear each mean something? What in all Arda does Nori's...star thing… mean then?"

Thorin laughed and shook his head. "Only certain braids carry meanings, and there is a great leniency in where they are placed. But I do not intend to discuss the nuances of dwarvish braiding customs this evening."

"You… don't? But you said that…"

"I want to explain the beads. That is where most of the meaning lies. And I do apologize that I used beads in your hair that would imply to others more than you yourself understood. It was not done out of an intent to harm you but to recognize the great deeds that you had performed as well as the debt my family owes to you."

"You know, you said you wanted this to be more formal, but I'm starting to feel underdressed with you speaking like that. Should I go find a fur lined cloak, Majesty?" Bilbo started smirking again, and was subdued the same way. "So what do these mean then?" His hand joined Thorin's at the small flat bead.

"That bead is… it names you as a member of Durin's line. It is a Durin bead. A family bead. Yes." For all his awkward bumbling, Bilbo did not understand the nuances. "In your case, as it is well known that you are not being adopted into the lineage, it served to mark you as protected, as a dwarf-friend, and as...mine."

Bilbo's eyes shone with a fiercer glow than the merry fire behind him at that.

With deft fingers, Thorin unclasped the first. Bilbo stopped him before the second, "Maybe I like that, Thorin, being marked as yours."

"Then you will be. But not with these. These beads, or at least, this pattern have been worn by the the patriarch of Durin's line for generations. You are many things Bilbo, but you are not that. Perhaps you would be willing to wear these instead?"

He handed Bilbo the box.

Reverently, his beloved opened the lid and his face transformed. The persistent coy tension melted into something far softer, and infinitely more ardent. He gently extracted the two flat beads, recognizing them as replacements to the ones Thorin had removed.

They were mithril and pale amber. Kili had a good eye. Each had the carved runes of Durin's line but were not decorated with the usual dwarvish geometric patterns. The mithril was worked into tiny oak leaves and sandwiched between thin pieces of the crystal clear amber, with the runes wrapping the bands and a single rune over the face of the amber. They were detailed and delicate, and by the incredible smile on Bilbo's face, they were more than acceptable substitutions.

"They're… Thorin they're incredible. How did you even manage this, the forges...the workrooms aren't even cleaned yet, are they? But they must be, this was, you had this made for me?"

"Nearly. I made it for you."

A hobbit eyebrow quirked up in doubt.

"I am a smith, Bilbo." The eyebrow rose. "And Dis is a jeweler. Between myself and the boys we have absorbed quite a bit."

"This rune is different." He said, holding both old and new, "Does it say Hobbit-Durin or some such nonsense?"

"No. It says Durin's Champion." Bilbo squawked a protest, recognizing the lauded title, likely from tales the Company had told. "I did say that I wished to announce your deeds and my family's debt to you. This will serve as an excellent start. Ah… that is… if you wish to wear them." There was a pause, then a shaky nod from the curls pressed against his chest where his hobbit had hidden his blush.

"And the others?" Bilbo asked as soon as his beads were placed, clearly determined not to think about what would be said about the reputation of respectable Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.

"The ones you wear now are truly just for convenience. They are just beads, I swear it. However," He stopped, losing his nerve even as he took the consort beads from their silk nest. Thorin knew he was asking for another sacrifice. His thumb brushed over the pink scar on his beloved's cheek, seeing in it all the sacrifices that had already passed. He saw every instance he had drawn on the strength of the gentle creature before him. He saw the toll it had taken. But he could not help himself from speaking when Bilbo caught his eye and they built together a forge bright blaze between them. Bilbo's vows would not fade, and if he was going to stay, it was only right he stay with all the honor that could be bestowed.

"However, these beads would carry more meaning. Great meaning. Particularly to me." He opened his palm to show the twin round beads. They were made with fire opals and gold. Simple in design, but made rich by the glints of color reflecting in the stones. Each had a simple rune carved in it, but were made striking by the opulence of the material.

He knew Bilbo had read a book on gemology while recuperating, and resisted listing the stone's meanings.

Soft fingers ran over them, still sitting in his hand, and Bilbo hesitated, sharp tongue held silent, waiting for Thorin to finish explaining. Impatient as always, it was the hobbit who broke the silence.

"Thorin, what would these mark me as?"

Champion's beads catching in the firelight, nearly vibrating in anticipation of an answer, Bilbo knelt, waiting, trying to keep himself still.

Even with the sight of their love crackling in the air between them, Thorin's voice tried to break as he answered.

"My consort."

And there it was. That world shattering smile that could brighten a tomb and that had drawn him from the darkness of dragon sickness. Bilbo nodded exuberantly and stilled long enough for them to be added to his remaining braids before rising to sit astride his lap in the oversized chair.

When they eventually separated, red lipped and rumpled, they set their foreheads together and savored the other's presence.

"Did you have any other questions, amralime?"

"Mmmmm….no. Oh, wait, yes. One. Just one. You said that first day that I woke, well that you had discovered something, but you never said what."

Thorin stopped. Bilbo of course had asked for details of something that he had no words to express, which was precisely how he answered.

"I don't know how I would have finished that sentence, and thinking now, none of it seems to encompass what I would wish to convey. But at its simplest form, I discovered that all I wanted in this world, was this." He pressed forward to reclaim his consort's mouth with every ounce of ardor and passion he had restrained since that moment.

It was a long time before they spoke again, but eventually, laying tangled under soft furs, Bilbo whispered, "So if I hadn't left, we would have done that instead?"

There was a great deal of cheering when the company saw the beads the next morning. There was even a slow, murmuring roar of approval from the dwarves of the Iron Hills.

Ori was told the story of Azog's fall first, and his recitation at the feast that spring was met with cheers and roars and enough back patting to bruise the consort's shoulders. Since seeing the beads, it had been known that some great deed had been done, but until it was announced in verse, it was kept secret. It silenced any whispers about the hobbit's right to carry the title of Champion.

Thorin beamed throughout. And as he drew off the rich fabric that night, he kissed every scar, turning each in his mind to a gift. Each was a token of Bilbo's love, and each was a symbol of how fortunate he was to still have him.