"How did it happen?" he asks.

He is numb.

"He was protecting us," comes the reply.

He will always be numb.

Thorin looks at the dried blood that stains a blue jacket and fights a wave of nausea. He has his own wound to contend with and doesn't think Oin would appreciate it if he blew out his fresh stitches by vomiting. Part of him is angry that he wasn't told before, that they made him wait until he was put back together before they answered his inquiries.

Bilbo.

Bilbo is dead on a cot before him and he thinks that he must be stuck in some dark dream. Because Bilbo cannot be dead. He was supposed to go back to his books and his armchair, to plant his trees and watch them grow. But he is dead before him.

He lifts his eyes to look at his sister-sons, watching tears streak through the dirt and blood on Kili's cheeks as his dark eyes stare down at their burglar. Fili is stoic but he looks deathly pale and Thorin isn't sure if it's from the arrow that he took to the shoulder or if it's Bilbo's death causing it. Perhaps both.

"He was not wearing his ring," Thorin says because he feels he must say something. The silence is too deafening.

"No," Fili says, soft, and sniffs but there are no tears. "He removed it to tell us you were on Ravenhill. It must have fallen, because we couldn't find it on him. It's probably on the field still."

Thorin stares down at blue lips and thinks how he would have liked to have kissed them. In Rivendell, on the Carrock, at the skin-changer's home, or Lake-town. He didn't and he feels angry grief coil in his stomach, roiling like Smaug did in the gold, and an immense weight presses down on his shoulders. He cannot stand anymore and sinks down onto the stool next to the cot, quickly enough that his nephews must think he's falling, because they both spring forward.

He waves them away and swallows but there is no moisture in his throat.

Bilbo is dead.

Thorin feels his face warm with the threat of tears and looks to his nephews, finding naked grief and sorrow on their faces. "Leave us," he croaks and pretends he doesn't see the look they exchange before they back out of the tent.

He snatches up Bilbo's cold hand and holds it, breathing in sharply, his eyes stinging. His side hurts from the stab wound but it isn't anywhere near fatal and he doesn't care about it. He finds he doesn't care about anything other than touching Bilbo, though he is icy from the chill in the air and has moved on to greener pastures.

Thorin knows it's his fault. He dragged Bilbo from his home, from safety, and thrust him into perils he never should have experienced. It is Thorin's fault that Azog was not killed, it is his fault for choosing to reclaim his homeland when he had a home already, it is his fault for the battle that has occurred. Bilbo never would have been there if Thorin hadn't wished to defy all logic and try to reclaim a lost home with fourteen members of a doomed Company.

It is his fault Bilbo lies dead on a cot in the valley before Erebor and it is his fault that he will never hear a chiming laugh or see the irritated twitch of a nose again. Bilbo is gone and he doesn't know who to write to inform them of their loss. He knows so little of Bilbo and that is his fault too.

He had dreamt of something greater for them, though he had not voiced it out of fears too many in number. He had dreamt of crafting a crown of golden leaves. He had dreamt of asking Bilbo to wear it for the rest of his time. He had dreamt of a throne next to his for the duration of his rule and of rough calloused toes against his in a feather-soft bed. He had dreamt of living his life with no more hardships, of fulfillment instead, and he had said nothing to the one he should have confessed everything to.

And now Bilbo is gone and he had left with words of hate and banishment, not of love and friendship. Thorin had cursed him, he had called him a rat and cast him out, and he hadn't apologized. There had been no time between his escape from gold sickness and the battle atop Ravenhill. He hadn't known where Bilbo was and had only hoped that it was somewhere safe and away from the battle.

Curse the wizard for not keeping him out of harm's way.

"He wished to join you on Ravenhill," a voice says, one too familiar, and Thorin doesn't bother looking up from the sight of Bilbo's pale fingers.

Think of him and he shall appear.

"And you let him go," Thorin replies, his voice rough with the accusation.

"I could no more stop him than I could have stopped you," Gandalf says and there is a depth to his tone, something weighty.

"You should have tried," Thorin bites, looking up at the wizard, the rest of his words sticking in his throat at the sight that greets him.

Gandalf is no wizard. He is an old man, shoulders hunched, eyes lined with grief, bright with unshed tears. Thorin hates him more for it. But Gandalf says nothing and simply stares down at Bilbo with his mouth twisted in a frown before he blinks himself out of his thoughts and looks at the king.

"I can take him back to the Shire but I think if he had any say in it, he would ask that he be buried near the mountain, to watch it prosper like it once did," Gandalf says.

And it is too much. Thorin flinches and tightens his grip on Bilbo's hand, willing him to come back and end the wizard's words with a few choice ones of his own. To banish Gandalf's unwanted presence, to wipe Thorin's tears, and kiss his brow, and tell him the worst is now behind them.

Thorin gasps and feels the hot tears leave his eyes and soak into his beard but he doesn't wish to let go of Bilbo's hand to wipe them away. He bows his head and weeps openly, caring nothing for Gandalf or anyone else should they wander in to pay their respects. He has loved and he has lost and he thinks that Bilbo would have cried over him too.

There is silence except for Thorin's heaving breaths and it takes a long while for his tears to subside. No one enters and he knows that Gandalf doesn't leave.

"It is my fault," Thorin says, because it is. "I was going to give him a crown. What am I to do?" He hates himself for showing this side to any but his sister but he feels bitter resentment boiling in his gut and can't stop the words.

"Live," Gandalf says simply and fixes Thorin with his grey stare. "He would expect nothing less. Live your life, Thorin Oakenshield, and remember him. Bilbo would be content with that."

Thorin knows the truth of it and yet it tastes sour on his tongue. He swallows reflexively and looks at the hobbit's serene face. He still wears his mithril shirt but it was the hilt of a broadsword taken to his soft temple that ended his life. The wound is on the opposite side from where Thorin sits and it makes him feel ill to think he is avoiding looking at it but he is, because that would make this more real and he cannot stomach it.

"I will not see him again," he whispers and tears come hot once more. "He has been taken from me, in this life and the next, and I did not tell him I loved him."

Gandalf says nothing and Thorin chuckles brittlely. They both know that Bilbo died not knowing it. How could he have, when Thorin did not make his intentions clear? When he kept them to himself, wishing to wait until he had a home to give?

It is quiet for a few moments. Then there is a rustle of fabric and Gandalf's hand rests over his shoulder. Thorin considers shaking it off but exhaustion has settled deep in his bones and he doesn't wish to jar his wound unnecessarily. He contents himself with baring his teeth but Gandalf merely looks pitying.

"Live your life," he says, squeezing Thorin's shoulder, "and you will do right by him. This is not the end, not for you, nor for him. Bilbo envisioned Erebor as you spoke of it. Do both justice and grow your home into something better than it once was. In his heart, he will know it has been done."

Thorin speaks no more for his tongue is a leaden weight in his mouth and Gandalf turns in a whirl of robes and leaves.

He does not leave Bilbo's side until he is buried on a hill that will soak up the sun and turn green when the desolation has been washed away and life returns.

—

Thorin lives his life. He heals from his wound and sits through numerous council meetings, defending Erebor from men, dwarves and elves alike, who would question him as the rightful king. Those that betrayed him betray him still and he fights to ensure his rule and his place as king.

The tide turns when caravans come in the next few months and the mountain fills with life, chasing away the ghosts of dragons, and there are those that now seek riches. He doles out what is necessary and more when he hears Bilbo tell him to do so and is seen as a just and fair king.

He leads his people to prosperous times within the first few years on his throne in Erebor. The mountain is rebuilt, stronger than before, and the mines are picked up where they left off and Erebor gifts them with riches beyond imagining and promises not to stop for an Age. Dwarves from every corner of Middle Earth come to settle, to find their old roots or grow new ones and he is seen as a welcoming and kind king.

Dis and Fili sit on the council with him and some days he wishes to hand them the kingdom, retire somewhere with rolling green hills and leave his own ghosts behind. But he cannot put them through it, not when he has worked for this and given them the life he always spoke of. He will rule and he will do it well, no matter the protests his very bones make. Fili and Kili deserve the Erebor from their childhood and he is the only one that can give them it.

Kili doesn't wish to rule and Thorin can't blame him for it but it takes him a while to accept his nephew has found love with an elf captain. She is quiet but when she smiles it is like the sun, which reminds him of a hobbit, and he cannot deny Kili the joy it brings. They marry and Thranduil and his court enter Erebor for the first time since it's reclamation to witness the wedding, and Thorin is diplomatic enough, in Balin's words. They have an understanding that treads on thin ice but it's there nonetheless and Thorin will see to it that he is on better terms with Mirkwood. It is what Bilbo would have pushed for, Thorin knows, so he does his best to greet the elves and only tests how accurate their hearing is on occasion.

Fili is cunning and Thorin knows that someday he will make a better king than he. His golden nephew has the mind of his mother and the charms of his long-dead father. He finds his stride tending to the Guilds, their finances and their disputes, and he does it so flawlessly that Thorin never worries about him. He learns from him when he can and thanks Mahal every day for his family. Fili doesn't find a dwarrowdam of his own until Thorin has gone nearly completely grey but he watches as his nephew stumbles through courtship rituals and gifts and makes a fool out of himself, to his One's great amusement and pleasure. They marry a year later and are pregnant within another. Thorin counts his blessings as Kili and his elf are pregnant at the same time and the mountain will hold young noble life again.

He and Dis work together like a fine-tuned machine and their rule is absolute. They enjoy what the other hates when it comes to council matters and it is clear why Erebor will always remain the greatest kingdom in Middle Earth. Dis is his closest confidante, as she always has been, but after years, when the pain in his heart has lessened, he tells her about his love for Bilbo and is allowed to weep on her breast the way he has denied himself since he last held Bilbo's hand.

She kisses his brow and his heart aches but she tells him that Bilbo would be proud of him and he knows it's true and continues on.

It is never easy. Kingship is hardship but he bears it proudly and is beloved. There is always an emptiness in his heart and somedays it is not as easy to fake a smile. Somedays it is easier to lock himself in his study and not make an appearance until his breathing is no longer shallow. Somedays he cannot bear the sight of his nephews and their growing families and hates himself for it but Dis seems to understand and lets him sulk and rage when he needs to.

When he has gone completely grey, Balin, Ori and Oin leave Erebor to reclaim Khazad-dum. Thorin parts with a small army and many well wishes in hopes that the kingdom is retaken. He is not confident as it has long been overrun with orcs and worse but he has faith in Balin. When he gets word that they are settling a colony, he is gladdened and wonders if dwarves will prosper as they once did.

When Thorin is old, he learns of another Quest, one that is also led by Gandalf. Gloin's son Gimli is sent when Elrond of Rivendell requests representatives of kingdoms for something he chooses not to speak on but Thorin will learn of after armies of orcs and other foul creatures march across the East. The Ring of Power was found. It is subsequently destroyed, as are the Enemy's armies, and Gandalf, now the White, appears in Erebor to tell his story.

Bilbo had carried the ring, the little trinket that rendered him invisible, without knowing it was evil. Thorin is aghast but again reminded of the strength of his hobbit. It is another hobbit, a distantly related one, that carries the ring to Mordor and destroys it.

Gandalf had found it when he had retrieved Bilbo's body from the battlefield and had been suspicious of it. He sent it back to the Shire to be kept safe until the time came when the Enemy began to look for it again. By then the ring had fallen into a cousin's hands and he, Frodo, went on to bear its burden and rid the world of dark power again. He survives and Thorin wishes that he could meet him but he is too old now.

He feels it in every breath he takes. The Halls of Waiting are beginning to call for him but it is still years before he lays on his deathbed. He is surrounded by Dis, Fili, Kili, their wives, and four dwarflings. They smile sweetly at him and he is content. He has not felt whole, not since his hobbit was taken from him, but here he feels at his most fulfilled. The line of Durin will remain strong and dwarves will continue to rule under the mountain. He can die and be at peace in this knowledge.

He smiles at his family and dies on a warm September afternoon.

—

He wakes to the warm embrace of his Maker and knows he has entered his Halls. There are questions and he is angry that he had been so flawed in his life and the answers he gets are open-ended questions themselves but he feels better for them. He thanks his Maker and doesn't ask about green pastures because he knows the answer will only pain him.

He is young again, with nary a silver thread in his hair, when he is dressed and taken to a room filled with family. He sees Frerin first, which surprises him, because he could not remember his brother's face for over a century. But he sees his golden head and knows him as well as he knows himself and weeps to hold him in his arms again.

Mother, Father.

Grandmother, Grandfather. They are there and they hold him and cry with him and there is no trace of madness, no resentments, and Thorin finally feels as if he is home again. He is in a great mountain with his family and lost friends by his side and he feels accomplished.

He mentions it to no one when his heart does not beat as strongly as it should for his young age. He does not say that he had hoped for another face to greet him but from the looks they sometimes give him, he suspects they are aware anyway. Mother tells him that she is there to listen to his heart but he finds he is not yet ready to speak from it.

Dying has felt like losing him again.

—

It is two weeks into his life in the Halls and he is in his private forge. There are many and it had been waiting for him when he had asked after one. It is an old, beloved hobby, as much as it is an escape and Thorin forges a crown of golden leaves. The first two are not good enough and he is working on his third one. He has settled on oak leaves and is wondering if he should add acorns to the design when thundering footsteps announce a visitor.

Thorin looks up from where he is trying to shape the gold to see Frerin run into the forge, his wild blond mane aflutter, some strands sticking to his forehead. He must have run far.

Though Thorin doesn't wish to stop his work, his brother, still so young, is pale and looks concerned. "What is it?" he asks, his fingers darting down to grab a sword that isn't there. No matter, he has two that he has made.

Frerin licks his lips. "There is… a situation," he says haltingly. Thorin arches an eyebrow and Frerin glances at the door with harrowed eyes. "I'm not sure. But it sounds as if someone is knocking on the gates."

Thorin frowns, his mind attempting to think of what gates his brother must mean. There are many in a mountain such as this and he has only begun to scratch the surface on all the places he could travel to, if he so wished.

"Which gates?"

Frerin chuckles nervously and that is enough for Thorin to forget his metal work and stand. "The- the front gates, that is. The entrance into the mountain. It… shouldn't be possible. No one has ever knocked. It sounds like banging, actually. They are very thick gates."

Thorin's mind supplies that it must be an enemy and he has snatched his sword up and thrown his brother the second one before he remembers that they are in the Halls and no enemy should reach them there. He pauses, looking at the sword in his hand, before he shakes his head. Strange things he has seen and he will not ignore that, not even in death. He looks to Frerin.

"Lead me," he says, because he will get lost if he tries to lead them himself.

Frerin looks at the sword in his hand warily before he nods and turns, running out of the forge with youthful energy that Thorin is glad he can keep up with again. They run together past unsuspecting dwarves who stop to watch them and eye the swords in their hands. Many who have been long dead don't wander around armed, Thorin has noticed, but many who have just entered the Halls still prefer to have weapons at their sides. Thorin understands, as the heavy broadsword in his grip feels like home.

They travel through the mountain for a long while and by the time they arrive in the Great Halls, there is a growing crowd. The halls are bigger than Erebor's Gallery of the Kings, and at the end of them lie two massive gates, so tall they stretch into the shadows of the mountain above. They cannot be possible and some things in this place aren't, so Thorin quickly abolishes his wonder.

There are numerous dwarves standing in groups near to the gates when Frerin and Thorin arrive and when they ask, they are told the banging has continued. No one is directly in front of the gates and the people in the hall look nervous, so Thorin takes up his sword and approaches, reminded of the day Smaug came to an uncomfortable degree.

There is no army at his heels and the banging is not loud or powerful enough to be a dragon but he is uneasy and wonders if someone has already gone to fetch Mahal. His Maker can be difficult to find but he will soon know that there is an attempted intruder and this will be set to rights.

Thorin eyes the gates as he steps near and flinches when something hits them. If he is not mistaken, it sounds like rock against stone. But Frerin is right. It should not happen. These gates are not meant to open. They are there because their great mountains have gates and they are a marvel to look upon but they should serve no function. Thorin is not sure that anything outside of the mountain exists; there are balconies to look upon the stars if one so wishes and there are valleys and other mountains beyond but there is something inside of him that tells him he could not get to them, even if he tried. There is only the mountain for him and his people.

He frowns when he hears another beat against the gate, wondering who might be out there tossing rocks. Someone looking for entry but why? For what purpose? How can it be? It boggles Thorin's mind.

He presses his ear to stone and sees Frerin do the same next to him.

Someone is yelling. It sounds very faint and far away but Thorin knows they are only separated by some feet of stone. He strains, attempting to make out the words.

"-blasted-"

"-ridiculous mountains-"

"-clotheaded dwarves-"

Thorin springs away from the gates as if they burned him. He knows that voice but it cannot be so. His heart twists in his chest as he gapes and he cannot stop the small thread of hope that lights. He knows that voice. He has dreamt of it for many long years… he will always dream of it. But it cannot be so.

"It cannot be," he whispers, his sword falling from his grip to clatter loudly against the stone below. "This is a ruse. He cannot be here."

"Thorin?" Frerin questions, stepping closer, his eyes wide. "You recognize the voice? Who is it, nadad?"

"It cannot be him," Thorin says, staring past his brother and at the gates. The banging continues and he cannot sense evil. He knows this is not right, it should not be, but it does not feel wrong either. It does not feel unnatural.

Thorin surges forward and begins inspecting the gates but he knows they will not open. They are not designed to. A roar of irritation leaves his throat at this and he presses himself against the gate, pushing. Perhaps this should not be but he must see it - he must see him. He is there and Thorin must touch him once more. He must see bright eyes and he must hear a chiming laugh.

"Open the gates!" he shouts, as if he has guards to command. He hears Frerin call his name again but he ignores his brother and hits his shoulder against the gates. Pain ripples through him but he cares not and hits the heel of his palm on the thick limestone. "Open!"

A blossom of light fills his vision, bright enough for him to wince, and he staggers backwards. The gates are carved with massive angular runes but in the bare space before him, smaller runes are glowing. They remind him of his grandfather's moon runes and he watches as they spindle outwards to make a shape. It is a perfect rectangle. A perfect door.

He is immediately upon it and pushing with all of his weight. It is heavy and does not seem as if it will move until he feels the heat of another body. Frerin is beside him and helping him push and between them, the door jars. It begins a painful journey and Thorin is nearly blinded by the light of the outside world when the door is pushed just far enough.

He has time to see fingers in the crack the door has made when he gives one last, final heave, and then there is someone small shimmying their way inside of the mountain.

"Blast it all, it is about time!" the voice snaps, annoyed and shrill. "Now, where is he?"

Thorin stares at Bilbo. He is the same. He is exactly what he sees when he closes his eyes at night.

Bilbo looks the same age as when he died and he is wearing traveling clothes. His shirt is white but stained and dirty and his waistcoat is a tawny color, while his traveling coat is the color of soil. He looks beautiful, even in the lower light of the mountain, his hair lit by the golden braziers lining the walls. His nose twitches as his eyes settle on Thorin, who thinks that he really must have died again.

"You!" Bilbo says, with all the vehemence Thorin knows he deserves. "You! I cannot believe you, I really cannot!"

"Bilbo," Thorin breathes, staggering closer, like a moth to flame. "Bilbo."

"Don't you 'Bilbo' me!" Bilbo says, thrusting his finger forward, nearly enough to jab Thorin in the chest. "How dare you!"

Thorin knows he does not deserve to see Bilbo again but his chest is light and he feels like he is flying. "I am sorry. I am sorry for all the pain I have caused you," Thorin says, wishing to reach out and touch. He wants to feel that Bilbo is real. "You have every cause to be angry with me. If I had not led you into such peril, you would not have…" He chokes himself off, unable to say it.

There is confusion on Bilbo's face before he seems to realize something and gapes. "You think I'm angry because of what happened on Ravenhill? I'm not- oh, you immense idiot!" Bilbo yells, throwing his arms in the air. "That was my bloody choice! I fought in that war because it was the right thing to do and that's not your fault. None of that was your fault, you- you- you dwarf! No, what I am angry at, Thorin Oakenshield, is that you had the gall to live a life where you hardly ever let yourself be happy! You moped for seventy years!"

He knows he should feel offended by that but he can hardly think beyond seeing Bilbo in front of him. Angry, livid, perfect Bilbo. He must smile, because Bilbo suddenly puffs up and points his finger in the air.

"Don't look at me like that, you great buffoon!" he chastises. "Don't grin at me because I'm not done with you. You- you reclaimed Erebor and killed Azog and got everything you ever wanted but because I die, you don't let yourself be free! You've been blaming yourself for years and years, Thorin! Do you know how hard that was to watch?"

"You could see me?" Thorin asks quietly. He knows it is possible, as he has watched his nephews since his passing but it is still something he marvels at.

"Of course I could see you!" Bilbo shouts and doesn't seem to notice the sizable crowd gathering around them. They are giving them significant berth and Frerin has backed away but Bilbo only has eyes for Thorin. "The only thing I ever wanted on that accursed Quest was for you to be happy and you couldn't even give me that. Bother it all, Thorin, I know you were a wonderful king, but to blame yourself for what happened was- was incredibly foolish! And I've had to watch you do it for this long!"

"Bilbo," Thorin says, inching closer to his hobbit, his fingers itching. He dares to lift his hand and reaches for Bilbo's collar but it is slapped away. He is not a fool: Bilbo is not just angry with him. His eyes are wet with unshed tears and Thorin wishes for nothing more than to embrace him. "Bilbo, ukradel. I am sorry. I am sorry to have caused you this pain as well. I did not know you could see me-"

"That's no excuse!" Bilbo interrupts. "You still shouldn't have blamed yourself or held back in your own happiness!"

"How could I have been happy without you?" Thorin asks, holding his hands out. "How could I have been happy without you by my side?"

"Don't say that, Thorin," Bilbo says hoarsely, glaring with reproach. "You didn't need me to be happy. You had everything you needed."

Thorin shakes his head. "I was going to ask you to stand at my side," he says, unsure if he should. Bilbo flinches but he doesn't step away as Thorin crowds him. "I would have given you a crown. I did not have you near my heart… it was empty without you, âzyungel. A dwarf only loves once. I should have told you and if you have seen me, you know how it has pained me that I did not."

Bilbo sniffs and wipes his nose. "No, you didn't, you wretched dwarf," he croaks. "You didn't tell me you loved me."

"I do, Bilbo. I have loved you for many long years. To see you before me, it is more than I deserve," Thorin says, lifting a trembling hand, laying it over Bilbo's cheek. He does not move from the touch and Thorin strokes his thumb along unmarred skin. "I am so sorry, Bilbo. I have many faults but loving you is not one of them. I could not be whole without you but I lived a good life. I saw to it that Erebor will always prosper. That was enough for me."

"Well, it wasn't enough for me," Bilbo snaps. "I wanted you to have more. You deserved it, no matter what terrible things you were thinking about yourself. You deserved everything life could give you and I wish you hadn't forsaken happiness the way that you did."

"Life gave me much still, Bilbo, and I enjoyed it. It was not all sorrow," Thorin says, smiling, lifting his hand to grasp Bilbo's shoulder. He hauls him closer and then engulfs him in a tight embrace, not sure if he is going to be pushed away.

Bilbo's arms snake around him instead and they cling together in silence for a few moments. Finally, Bilbo sniffles and pulls back, looking up at Thorin with bright eyes.

"Well, I love you too, you know," he says and Thorin's heart sings.

"You do?" he asks breathlessly. He swears he hears a snort and he will cuff Frerin later but he must be reassured in this.

"Of course I do!" Bilbo says, as if he is very dense indeed. "I did for quite a while, too! And we foolishly danced around each other. Well, let me tell you, when the world is remade, we will find each other and do much better. For now, though, I want to kiss you."

Thorin grins at that and cups Bilbo's cheek again. "I would be honored," he says, delighting in the laugh it draws from Bilbo. He leans down as his hobbit surges up and their lips meet for the first time and it is like all the ballads he has ever heard.

They kiss until they are laughing against each other's lips and breathing heavily and it is everything that Thorin has ever wished for. He holds Bilbo close and breathes him in and wonders which part of his life made him deserving of this.

"Oh dear," Bilbo says after he pulls away and there is a sudden clarity to his eyes. He is looking around them and Thorin smiles as he flushes a bright red, seeming to have only noticed the crowd right then. He hastily pulls back and rocks forward on his toes, looking at Thorin with mild panic.

Thorin chuckles and takes his hand, squeezing it, before he looks out at his people. They begin to applaud once the king's eyes are upon them, Frerin the loudest of them, and there is Mother and Father, Grandmother, Grandfather, Balin, Oin, Ori, Bifur and others. They are all grinning and cheering and Thorin has never felt so proud in all his life.

Bilbo is fretting at the applause, his face apple-red, and waves at everyone as if they are being silly, though Thorin sees the gleam in his eyes. He finally gives up all pretenses and pounces forward, embracing the members of the Company who have come to the Halls. They are happy, tear-filled reunions, and then Thorin introduces Bilbo to his family.

He seems rather nervous but he takes it in stride and squeaks when Thror bodily lifts him off the ground and goes cross-eyed when Thrain thumps him on the back. Thorin grins until his cheeks hurt and does not stop.

They question Bilbo on how he got there ("Well, I walked here, didn't I?") and what his life has been like in his green pastures.

He tells them of his mother and father, of their own reunion, and regales them with many tales of his family members. They are all caught up in this and fail to notice a dwarf of considerable size and nature amongst their midst until Frerin suddenly pokes Thorin in the ribs and points.

It is Mahal, with his fiery beard, and he eyes Bilbo as if he is unsure of his presence. Bilbo stutters and gestures with his hands for a while until he forms coherent sentences on how he knew that Thorin had died and so set off East on a pursuit to find him. He traveled for a fortnight until he reached the mountain that sang to his heart and beat against the gates ("For a long time, you know! No one seemed to want to answer!") until Thorin and Frerin opened them for him.

Mahal listens with his arms folded over his chest and by the time Bilbo is done speaking, he is laughing and laughing until his face is nearly as red as his beard. He claps Bilbo on the shoulder and comments that his wife's beloved children have her spirit, before he turns serious and says that it still should not be so. They go where they are meant to after death and should not cross paths again; that is the natural order of things.

Thorin begs his Maker to make an exception in this as Bilbo stays quiet. He begs and pleads until his throat is hoarse and when the entire line of Durin and more besides offer their opinions on the matter, Mahal lets out a gusty sigh and says that there will be rules but that his child and his wife's child deserve to remain together until the world is remade.

The first thing Thorin does when Bilbo decides to stay in the Halls is gift him with a crown of golden leaves. The second thing he does is kiss him until his heart wells with gladness.