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White silk sheets covered the bed, but they were the only soft thing in the sickroom. The walls were solid, unadorned stone. As was the table upon which Oin mixed his potions. Other than the bed, the only place for a fellow to sit was a bench made of, yes, stone. It was not a comfortable place. That did not stop Bilbo from visiting every single day and staying until someone kicked him out.
Thorin was never the one to do that.
Bilbo mostly spent his time watching the king sleep and fidgeting with his work bag. One by one, a crocheted blue blanket, several embroidered throw pillows, and a small quilted comforter appeared on Thorin’s bed. The king ignored these, often seeming displeased with them when he woke, but he did not ignore Bilbo.
“The cut on your forehead is no longer bandaged. Indeed, I cannot see a mark beneath your hair at all. Does Oin think it will scar?”
“Not much, if it does,” Bilbo admitted. “I was far more fortunate than you. Though of course you will make a full recovery in time. Do you need anything? Water? A snack?”
Scowling at the pillow with the bright yellow sunflowers, Thorin murmured something in Khuzdul that Bilbo suspected was a curse. “I think these are multiplying.”
Flushing with embarrassment, Bilbo hid the ribbon he was embroidering with acorns and oak leaves beneath his jacket. “Is the embroidery uncomfortable?” he asked. “I’d be happy to make up a few in plain silk if that’s your preference.”
“My people should know better. I do not need to be coddled.” Thorin tossed the pillow to the floor. Then he smiled at Bilbo so sweetly that the hobbit quite forgot to be disappointed that his friend did not like the present. “My health is improving.”
“Better and better every day,” Bilbo agreed happily. “Not just on the mend, but very nearly stitched up entirely. Oin says you’ll be able to get up and about for short walks very soon.”
Thorin’s smile took a crooked turn. “It cannot come soon enough. Though your conversation soothes my restless spirit, being confined to a bed chafes. My home is waiting just beyond that door. The mountain is coming back to life. That my body does the same more slowly is difficult to bear.”
So Bilbo did what he could to amuse the invalid king. Any news that he could gather from the repopulating mountain or Dale took precedence, but too often he had to leave that to Balin. The dwarf had all sorts of reports and numbers that Bilbo barely understood. Instead, the hobbit prattled on about old Shire gossip, proposed plans for the spring planting, or his own family history. Thorin never seemed to mind. As he grew stronger, he would take Bilbo’s hand, ask questions, and do everything he could to encourage conversation.
One day, quite out of nowhere, Thorin suggested a new topic. “Have you ever considered marriage, Master Baggins?”
Bilbo’s brain stopped working briefly. After a moment, he realized that this was not a proposal and found his words again. “Not seriously, no. It was strongly encouraged in my younger days, of course. I had any number of aunts trying to set me up, and a veritable army of lads and lasses chasing me. A born romantic, I suppose I was only willing to marry for love. Love which I never experienced it in my youth. It is easy enough for a fellow with property not to marry if he does not want to. He simply never proposes.” This, he felt, split the difference very nicely between answering honestly and confessing his love to Thorin.
A slow smile spread across the bedridden king’s face. “I suppose that is true. How nice it must be to be the one allowed to pursue! Among dwarves, royalty actively seeking a spouse is considered unseemly. For a king to openly ask for marriage is political suicide. Many would perceive him to be a tyrant, since the object of his affection would not be in a position to refuse.”
“Shame,” Bilbo managed.
“Indeed,” Thorin said. “I rejected a few mercenary propositions in my youth. Many sought to stand beside a prince of Erebor. Fortunately, there was little interest in sharing the life of a king responsible for the welfare of a wandering people. I did not suffer such attentions while I had no time for them. Now that I am wealthy and in able to make my spouse powerful, I am open to receiving many offers of all kinds.”
Pausing for a moment, as though he realized this made him sound like a bit of a harlot, Thorin added, “From hobbits.”
Again, there was a moment of hesitation. This made it seem like Thorin had a rather strange craving when it came to spouses. “Here in Erebor,” he finished. As Bilbo was the only one of those, there could be no mistaking the king’s meaning.
Pushed up to the mark in such a way, Bilbo was eager enough to jump at the starting whistle. Taking Thorin’s hand between his own, he said, “Then you shall receive one. My heart is small, weak, and peaceful, but it is yours, Thorin Oakenshield. It has been yours since I heard you singing in the night at Bag End. It has followed you through shadow and flame, and it would follow you over the edge of the world. I love you.”
The door to the sickroom opened noisily as Balin bustled in looking surprised to see them. “Just what is going on in here, then?”
“Go away,” Thorin ordered. Then, considering how rude this was, and the fact that Balin was his oldest friend, and the fact that an offended dwarf was never an obedient dwarf, he added, “I require a report on the current state of the other injured, particularly my nephew Fili. Please consult with him in person. At once.”
“As you wish, my liege,” Balin said. However, before turning to leave the sickroom, he caught Bilbo by the elbow and tugged him along. “A word with you on the way out, Master Baggins.”
Thorin’s eyes were wide and longing as he watched Balin drag Bilbo away. He reminded the hobbit very much of a host watching the last piece of an insufficient cake disappearing. The dwarf was accustomed to forgoing his own pleasure for the benefit of others. Bilbo was resolutely determined to end that state of affairs.
“You cannot seriously mean to propose to my king in such a manner,” Balin chided once the door was shut behind them.
Tugging his arm from the dwarf’s grasp, Bilbo stiffened. “As a matter of fact, I do. Thorin is—I mean—That is to say—” The hobbit took a deep breath. “I shall marry who I like without consulting you, Master Balin. It can be no concern of yours. And if it is, well. You must simply ask also. He can choose between us, as is proper.”
Balin’s eyes softened and a smile tugged at the corner of his beard. “Bilbo. I have no objection to you marrying Thorin. In truth, I think you are good for one another. I hope you will be very happy together. But to propose in such a way?”
“Ah.” Bilbo coughed. “I was given to understand that a king could not propose marriage, and that it was proper for me to do so?”
“Well, aye, but empty handed? With no witnesses?”
Cocking his head to the side, Bilbo considered this. Obviously he ought to have a bouquet in hand when proposing marriage. That was a very good point. Sadly, it was deep winter. There were no hothouses in the desolation, and the ruins of Dale hardly had a working conservatory. Still, he ought to make an effort. The other part of Balin’s objection caught his attention.
“Witnesses? Who would that be? Among hobbits such conversations are held in private. The lad with property speaks, the lass or lad with less answers, and then they go have a word with their families. That might matter in some cases with inheritances and whatnot, but in the end, it’s the couple who decides.”
“I see.” Balin smiled. “It is slightly different among dwarven noble houses. An offer to royalty must be made in front of their close kin. If the offer is an insult, then the suitor may be challenged. Given our state here, however, you need only face Fili and Kili. They will not fight you to the death, no matter what you offer their uncle.”
Bilbo’s mind was already returning to the matter of finding a bouquet under a mountain in winter, but he answered absently. “Good, good. They’re dear lads, of course. I look forward to becoming their relation.”
Balin laughed sharply. “Oh! You are changed by your adventures indeed, Master Burglar!”
Blinking, Bilbo met his grin. “I suppose I am at that! Much fonder of dwarves in general than I was at the outset.”
“As we are fond of you. All of us.” Balin’s smile softened once more. He was a great friend of the hobbit and respected the little fellow enormously. “Fear not! They will welcome you with open arms. As to the other matter—”
“I’ll figure it out,” Bilbo promised. “As you know, I am not entirely without resources.”
“Good.” Balin’s cheeks reddened a little and he looked away. Clearly, whatever he wanted to say next overstepped some bounds of propriety. “Not being a great beauty or of particularly desirable temperament, Thorin gave up hope of inspiring love long ago. Yet his heart has always been a romantic one. He deserves—”
“Whatever do you mean?” Bilbo interrupted sharply.
Balin blinked in surprise, as well he might. By using such a tone with a friend, one could tell that the hobbit was deeply offended. Indeed, Bilbo’s little cheeks were much redder than the dwarf’s, and not with embarrassment.
“Thorin inspires love wherever he goes. You lot did not follow him across half the world thinking he was only a bit alright, and I certainly didn’t either. Moreover, I demand to know what you mean about him being undesirable. That is the greatest load of poppycock I have ever heard. Explain yourself, if you please.”
After staring at Bilbo in amazement for half a moment, Balin laughed again. “I mean no offense, I assure you, Bilbo. Truly. I had forgotten what a stalwart champion new love makes one. I only suggest that objectively Thorin has not precisely those qualities which might inspire a poet.”
Puffing up even more at this, Bilbo prepared to give the dwarf a piece of his mind. If dwarven poets were not moved by Thorin, then they were illiterate. Idiotic. The King Under the Mountain deserved odes and eddas. Thorin Oakenshield deserved sonnets, ballads, and as much free verse as he cared to hear. In all the world, no figure could be more romantic or inspiring.
“I yield!” Balin fell to what Bilbo could only call giggling, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “He is handsome, and anything else you would have me call him. I have no wish to face your revenge!”
Deflating a bit in the face of Balin’s obvious delight, Bilbo admitted, “He can be a bit stubborn. One might even call him ill-tempered on occasion. But in my experience, that is true of most dwarves.”
“Aye.” Balin forced his grin down to the usual smile, though his eyes continued to twinkle delightedly. “Then you will not make me say he has the gentle, biddable nature one might wish for in a homemaker.”
“He has the stalwart, honorable nature one wants in a king,” Bilbo said firmly. “And if you didn’t know that, you would not be the friend to him that you are.”
“That I would not,” Balin agreed. Clapping Bilbo on the shoulder in farewell, he said, “I should never have doubted you, Master Burglar. For although you are not so biddable yourself as to always give Thorin what he wants, I have never once known you to fail to give him what he needs.”
Which puffed the silly hobbit back up with so much pride that he walked into a wall shortly after their parting. Fortunately, this knocked some sense into the absent minded fellow and refocused him on his quest.
Finding flowers in the Lonely Mountain would not be easy. In fact, at first Bilbo believed it would not be possible. He found a sheaf of wheat still on the stalk, which could be used to flush out a winter bouquet, but hardly to make one. A few mountain ash berries were also available, still on the twig, from the child of a dwarf selling timber.
“I’ve told you to pluck those, lad, and put them in baskets,” his mother said. “You’ll not move them in such an inconvenient way.”
“Berry onna stick!” the child cried, then lifted one of the twigs to his mouth and ate a few berries to demonstrate. “Berry onna stick! Two silver!”
“Copper, lad,” the long suffering mother chided from her lumber stall. “You’ll never sell berries for silver. Sorry, Master Burglar. Did you have need of wood? I’ve a great deal of rowan today, as you can see, but there’s also some very nice pine just in. Happy to cut it down for you in any way you like.”
“Actually,” the hobbit said, “I was hoping for the berries on a stick!” Then he paid three times the child’s asking price in silver, so happy he was to find something bright and colorful to put in his bouquet. The lad’s bemused mother was also happy to part with a few of the most beautiful pine branches. Their long, elegant needles would add some much needed greenery to his bouquet.
Still, a bouquet was not a bouquet without at least one flower. Searching high and low yielded nothing. Bilbo went to every stall, storefront, and back-alley shop in the Grand Marketplace of Erebor. After that, he tried the streets of Dale. Going from house to house seemed foolish, so he consulted first with Bard. The bargeman turned newly-crowned-king could not help him.
“Perhaps we might have had dried flowers of several kinds in Laketown, but they are burned, Master Baggins.” Upon seeing how this dispirited the hobbit, however, Bard added, “Lose not all hope. There is one here in Dale who may yet be able to aid you in your quest.”
So it was that Bilbo learned that Captain Tauriel had not gone home to Mirkwood with the rest of the elves, but remained in Dale to assist the Men with their rebuilding efforts. Even she could not help him at first, quite dashing his hopes regarding elven magic.
“I could grow a flower for you, Master Hobbit, with much the same magic you would use yourself to do so: good glass, a warm house, and soil from beyond the desolation.” Tauriel laughed. “Perhaps there are other elves who could do more, but I came here hunting orc. Between the two of us, you are likely the superior gardener.”
Bilbo sighed. “Then it is hopeless. Oh, I shall certainly sprout some marigolds as you suggest. Perhaps a daffodil or two. But that will take weeks. If you had seen Thorin’s face— Well. I do not like to make him wait so long. As you say, there is no helping it. I don’t suppose you know where I might find bulbs or seed?”
Tauriel blinked. “Seed? There is a thought. Will any flower do, Master Baggins?”
“Of course not,” Bilbo said. “I’m not going to give him petunias or white lilies under the circumstances. But yes, I’m desperate enough for most anything else. What I wouldn’t give for sunflowers or roses, though! Oh, if I only had a year or two to grow them. I would shower him in roses of every color!”
Tauriel’s smile stretched across her face, an earnest grin that seemed far too emotional for an elf. Even before she spoke, Bilbo’s heart lifted. She was a good lass, and would not mock him. “Roses, I cannot help with,” she said. “But a sunflower might be found, if dried is not a detriment to your purposes.”
Bilbo answered her grin with one of his own, bright and hopeful. “Dried is the best I could expect this time of year, and a sunflower would surpass my wildest hopes. If it can be done, I will pay very well indeed. You know the dwarves were quite insistent on my having a share of the treasure in the end. I’m as happy as any hobbit to trade gold for something useful.”
Tauriel turned to Bard. “Yet the price is not mine to command, for the flower does not belong to me. In truth, I know only of its provenance, and not its location. Several sunflowers were included with the food my people initially brought to yours in the wake of the dragon. Sigrid has confided to me that the seeds are less favored than other foodstuffs. According to her, they want for salt that is better used preserving fish in this time of scarcity.”
“Oh, that is a shame,” Bilbo said. “I can show you how to press them for a delightful cooking oil. One needn’t eat them raw if there is no salt to roast them with, you know. Not to say that they aren’t quite good baked into a nice muffin, either. I suppose we are low on greens for a salad as well, but I’ve always thought that a few raw seeds were not so bad in a lovely vinegar dressing with a soft cheese and a little lemon.”
Bard coughed. “Are you trying to convince me to deny you your desire, Master Baggins?”
Bilbo smiled at him. “Perhaps I am only trying to convince you to inflate the price. Food is scarce in Dale at the moment. The caravans who come through the winter snows for trade come for gold, not fish.”
“And gold we have,” Bard said. “Thanks to you. Sigrid will show you to the food stores and help you find what flowers may be there. In the interest of commerce between the mountain and Dale, she will charge a fair price, and not the one your desperation would pay.”
So it came to pass. Sigrid took Bilbo into the big storage cellar beneath Bard’s house, where several dried sunflowers hung alongside braids of garlic, drying herbs, and smoked fish. Despite his eagerness for any sort of flower at all, Bilbo chose only the best. That these were not the ones which would be considered best by the hungry folk of Dale was a nice bonus. Bilbo wanted the flowers with all of their petals, not a full head of seed, and the smallest, which were only just taller than his wheat stalks.
By nightfall, he had a very respectable bouquet. Tying it up neatly with his black ribbon embroidered with golden acorns, he went to visit Thorin.
The king was fully dressed and sitting up in bed. Most of the throw pillows were on the stone benches, and the blankets Bilbo worked so hard on were nowhere to be seen. Flanking the bed on either side were Fili and Kili, looking expectant. In the corner of the room, Balin frowned at Bilbo, looking concerned.
Ignoring his friend, Bilbo stepped up smartly. Bowing low, he offered the bouquet to Thorin with a flourish. “A token of my esteem,” he announced.
“Um.” Fili sounded torn.
“Bilbo?” Kili sounded confused.
“It is perfect,” Thorin proclaimed. “I will go at once to the forges and set it in crystal so that it shall never fade or come undone.” Then the invalid dwarf made as if to rise.
Quickly, Bilbo put his hands on Thorin’s shoulders. A light pressure that a healthy dwarf could ignore was force enough to keep the injured king in bed. “A turn about the room is one thing, but you are not to go any further than that for another three days,” the hobbit said. “Even then, I think a light supper would be more appropriate than hard work in a forge!”
“I can set it, uncle,” Fili offered, shifting his crutch and straightening up. “If you’ll trust me with the task.” He frowned at Bilbo. “I could have set it in crystal earlier today. Discreetly.”
“What are you all talking about?” Bilbo asked. “It’s a bouquet. It’s not meant to keep. You might press the best flower between glass to remember the occasion, but the rest can go in the compost once it starts to wilt. Actually, given the nature of this bouquet, you might have a snack or two along the way. The dogberries are as good as they ever get, which is to say that they look nice but would be better off as jam with lots of sugar for flavor. My father always called them wholesome, though. With a few eggs and a little sugar, actually, I could turn the whole thing into a cake, if you like.”
Thorin frowned hard at the bouquet in his hand. “And what meaning do you seek to impart by giving me such an ephemeral gift?”
Glancing to the side, Bilbo saw Balin’s scrunched, unhappy expression. Only then did he realize his danger. Squeezing the scroll in his left hand flat would not change the wording of it, so Bilbo did not. Instead he said, “A dinner invitation,” and hoped for the best.
Thorin blinked. “A dinner invitation?”
“Yes,” Bilbo said. “I had no idea that the lads would be here now, but I quite understand if it is improper for us to meet alone at the moment, given the givens. Of course I am always happy to see them, but I rather hoped to see them, and you, all together as it were, in three days. For a little light supper. Oh, I am making a hash of this. I ought to have written out a card. But, well, will you join me? When Oin says you can rise?”
Slowly, a smile grew on Thorin’s face. “We would be very pleased to do so. I understand hobbits often care to discuss important matters over food.”
“Exactly.” Bilbo beamed in relief. “So, here you are then.” He passed the scroll to Thorin with much less fanfare than he’d offered the bouquet, no longer quite as sure of his reception.
Unrolling the missive, Thorin stared at it for a long moment. Then he turned quite red and went silent.
Kili pulled it from the king’s unresisting hands. Like the child he was, the prince read the poem aloud.
My dearest Thorin, for you I must write.
How I love thy vision and every dream!
Over mountain and under hill I fight
Against goblins, dragon, and golden gleam.
For your safety or for your mere delight
There is no peril which I would not face.
No evil in this world can give me fright;
So long as I am with you I am safe.Taking back your kingdom you have shown
The true meaning of justice, and of home.
Beauty beyond any I had ever known:
Forget-me-not eyes, smile bright as the sun.So long as you’re near me all is well.
Unto death itself your glory I will tell.
By the end of the poem, Bilbo’s face was nearly as red as Thorin’s. It was always a little mortifying the first time something one dashed off over the course a single day was read aloud. However, the dwarves seemed to like it.
“That’s all right,” Fili said, massively relieved.
“Absolutely,” Kili agreed. “Bilbo’s a scribe! We forgot during the quest, but all those books of his, he has to be a scribe.”
“I could frame that in crystal, uncle,” Fili offered earnestly. “It’s a marvelous keepsake.”
“Oh, honestly!” Bilbo cried. “What is with you lot and setting everything in crystal? It’s a sonnet. Nothing more, nothing less, and certainly not my best. For all that I now have a source of inspiration more wonderful than I could ever have dreamed at Bag End, of course.”
Beneath his beard, Thorin’s lip twitched up in a crooked smile. “The mountain?”
“It’s appallingly handsome king,” Bilbo corrected without a jot of embarrassment. “Who should probably expect a sonnet a week, if he will allow a writer to love him. I promise not to inflict the worst upon you.”
Thorin’s smile only grew, and his eyes were softer than Bilbo would have imagined any part of a dwarf could be when they invaded Bag End. “No word of love you could ever speak to me would be unwelcome,” the king murmured.
Thus, Bilbo had to step forward and take Thorin’s hand in both of his. Bowing swiftly, he pressed a lingering kiss to the skin there before straightening up with alacrity. “We shall see about that in three day’s time,” the hobbit said, exiting smoothly.
He made it halfway down the hall before finding a convenient linen closet where he could collapse in a sweaty, shaking heap.
Balin opened the door a few minutes later.
“How did you find me?” Bilbo asked. Hobbits were rightly known for their ability to hide, Bilbo Baggins not least.
Shrugging, the dwarf took a seat on the floor next to Bilbo. “Remember, you asked me to make sure the princes were present this evening. Also, I am your friend.”
Bilbo sighed. Arching his neck, he banged his head backward against the stone wall. “Made quite a mess of things, didn’t I?”
“Not yet,” Balin said. “You really do think very quickly on your feet.”
“And what good is that if I never think at any other time?” the hobbit asked rhetorically. “You would have told me that dwarves did not give proposal bouquets, if I had thought to ask.”
“I would have,” Balin agreed. “But you have three days, and a sixteenth share of the treasure hoard of Thror to find a suitable gift. I have seen you do far more with far less.”
Bilbo looked sideways at his friend. “Can anything in the treasure be considered suitable? I do not know the custom, but I know enough about dwarves to expect that I ought to make a proposal gift myself.”
“In ideal circumstance,” Balin said carefully, “but you are no smith. Thorin would take you with an old dishrag.”
“As he very nearly did today.” Bilbo groaned. “You cannot tell me a bouquet is anything more than that to a dwarf.”
“The poem was good.” Balin’s voice was firm and brooked no argument. “In truth, had you offered that first, no one would have felt the slightest trepidation about your suit.”
“But it is not considered a romantic ideal.” Bilbo felt very certain on this point. “One ought to give—what? A ring? A bracelet? Armor? Some jewelry?”
“Yes,” Balin admitted. “Any sort of fine jewelry or armor will do. Usually the wearing of such is the cementing of acceptance. But the poem is suitable, as your abilities do not lend themselves to the creation of such finery. A poem can last as long as steel. Longer, even, if it is well cared for. Poetry does not rust.”
Bilbo considered this for a while, but eventually shook his head. “Thorin Oakenshield deserves as much romance as a hobbit can give him. I believe I need to speak to Dori.”
In the end, it was a very good thing that Bilbo had a sixteenth share of the treasure hoard of Thror minus the gems of Lasgalen. What he wanted would have been very, very expensive otherwise. Fortunately, it already existed in abundance, and Dori had been separating it out all along for his own share.
Small jewels with holes drilled through them already were very useful for a weaver, after all. In fact, consulting with Dori proved fruitful in a great many ways, for he had a dwarf’s understanding of what Bilbo could do with his homely arts. From Dori, Bilbo found out about mithril thread. It was worth the same amount as all the jewels he wanted combined, but it was as flexible as silk and stronger than steel. It made a fine starting point for the project.
Using two needles, Bilbo began at the center of his piece with a nice, big globe of polished amber. Flat squares of topaz, each no bigger than a grape seed, he wove together to create an acorn cap strong enough to cradle the amber. Aside from the translucent nature of the nut, it looked very like the real thing. Bilbo was pleased. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Then he got to work.
Weaving a fine chain of green, red, and yellow beads in an oak leaf pattern that was quite popular in the Shire, Bilbo worked with little sleep and no other rest for two days. Simple crafts were not always simply achieved. However, he was pleased with the final product. A small blue forget-me-not linked each leaf in the chain to the next, but one would have to look very closely to see them. Only the amber was big enough to notice at first glance. All of the other gems appeared to be little more than a colorful chain until one looked closely. The finished necklace was subtle enough that a dwarf could wear it on any occasion, and light enough to be worn beneath the clothes when no finery would be best. Most importantly, it was valuable enough to be considered a good gift by dwarven standards.
Falling into bed, Bilbo slept until elevenses. Waking, he realized he had only a few hours to make a meal fit for a king.
Fortunately, he was a hobbit. That was hardly a challenge.
A Baggins of Bag End could put together a mid-winter feast in his sleep. They would start with a few nice egg puff pastries loaded with cheese. This would be followed by potato leek soup, pan seared perch with wild mushrooms, and braised pheasant with buttery squash. Then would come lemon sorbet to cleanse the palate. For a main course, Bilbo would serve a big roast ham with whipped potatoes and plenty of gravy. Closing the evening, they would have a light winter salad, bread pudding, and as many nuts as Bilbo could get together for afters. It was an easy meal to prepare with what he had on hand.
All in all, he was very pleased with his progress. Until Thorin and the boys showed up, and he lost the ability to think or speak.
Thorin had Bilbo’s ribbon in his braid.
One of the two braids that Thorin wore to frame his face had Bilbo’s ribbon woven through it.
The ribbon that Bilbo embroidered was in Thorin’s hair.
He couldn’t imagine how Thorin knew.
In the Shire, one often flirted with flowers. A lad would give a lass a bouquet; if she liked him, she’d braid the ribbon into her hair. A lass would give a lad a bouquet; if he liked it, he might sew the ribbon into his clothing or tie it about his wrist. Reusing a ribbon in a boutineer was also popular.
Of course, Bilbo knew that Thorin liked him. Thorin wanted to marry him. He practically said so. Bilbo just didn’t expect to be flirted with. After all, Thorin hated his embroidery. That was very clear. Yet the golden acorns woven seamlessly into Thorin’s dark hair told a different tale. Staring was rude, but he couldn’t help it. Thorin looked so handsome with the ribbon in his hair.
Not just handsome. Naturally, the king looked handsome even on Ravenhill, pale as the mountain snow falling gently about his face. Now, however, he looked well. Hale and hearty, walking about as though it barely pained him. His eyes were bright in the golden lamplight, and the cheeks beneath his beard were full of roses.
Slowly, the hobbit realized that they were all sitting down. Fili and Kili had served the meal. This meant that despite his best intentions everything was on the table all at once. Dwarves did not much appreciate elegance in a dinner. Kili had the sorbet out as relish for his ham. Dwalin ate the bread pudding directly from the serving dish. Fili smothered his squash with ham and gravy, mixing in some of the mushrooms from the fish. Gloin dipped his pastries into his soup. Oin drank wine out of his ear horn, making Bilbo shudder. Even Balin was picking apart one of the braised pheasants with his fingers, sucking the meat from the bones. Only Thorin had any manners.
Eating with a knife and fork, the king turned to Bilbo and smiled. “This is very good,” he said.
Doing his best not to sigh, swoon, or otherwise embarrass himself, the hobbit grinned back and thanked him for the compliment. There was a little shining silver in Thorin’s dark beard. Bilbo noticed it often. The next ribbon he embroidered ought to use silver thread. Deep blue for the background might be nice. Like a twilight sky full of stars. Blue was always a compliment to Thorin’s eyes.
After some time, Balin addressed Bilbo rather pointedly. While the hobbit wasn’t quite listening, it seemed to be about giving someone something. “Of course,” Bilbo said. “My apologies,” he added, passing Dwalin the salt.
This seemed to be the wrong thing to say. Thorin scowled. Everyone else went silent. Then the king touched the braid dangling over his right shoulder. “This is the problem,” he said. Slipping the bead off the end, he began untwisting his hair.
Panicking, Bilbo caught his hand. “Please don’t.”
Thorin stopped. His scowl melted into a questioning look. “You have been staring at it all evening. You have not eaten.”
Feeling the heat rise in his cheeks, Bilbo released Thorin’s wrist. Licking his lips, he said, “You must know it means the world to me that you wore it. I know you are not fond of my little fripperies.”
“Fripperies?” Thorin asked carefully.
“The embroidered pillows, the blankets, the quilts, and suchlike.” Bilbo waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll try to limit myself to the poetry, since it seems more appreciably dwarven, poor as my offerings in that area might be. That said, I’ve another trifle here for you, if you care to see it. Naturally, no material object could begin to express how I value you or what you mean to me. For in truth, your value is beyond gold and jewels, greater than Arkenstones or Silmarils. You, Thorin Oakenshield, are more precious to me than the sun in the sky and all the green, growing things of the earth. I love you.”
Thorin accepted the box, but he did not open it. Therefore, Bilbo had to pause in his little speech. Upon realizing how much direction Bilbo needed, Balin had been very specific that a proposal should come after family members inspected the gift, and not before.
“You made the decorations for my sickbed. Not just this ribbon. All of them.” Thorin’s voice was slow and measured, but he looked unhappy.
Casting a quick glance at Balin, Bilbo was not reassured by the the old dwarf’s wide, surprised eyes.
“Didn’t uncle burn one of those pillows?” Kili asked his brother.
“The lacy one,” Fili confirmed.
Bilbo flushed. “Not my best work,” he said quickly. “I’ve never been any good at lace.”
“He burned the gift of your hand?” Gloin asked. All of the dwarves seemed particularly stone faced. Not a good sign.
“Obviously not,” Bilbo lied quickly. “Pillows and things aren’t gifts. Thorin’s just been stuck in bed for so long, I wanted to brighten the place up a bit. I’d do the same for any of you.” He would, too. Though perhaps not to the same extent.
No one spoke. After a time, the silence became quite awkward.
“Look,” Bilbo said, “I am not a dwarf. Clearly, I’ve been very rude somehow. Leaving aside how folk who drink wine out of things that they’ve stuck in their ears can judge me for rudeness, I’ll apologize. I am very sorry. Sadly, whatever taboo I’ve broken is simply unknown to me. Among hobbits, wanting a friend to be comfortable isn’t a crime. That’s all I was doing. Making Thorin comfortable.”
“That is not all this is to you,” Thorin said, gesturing to the ribbon in his hair. With a face like a thundercloud, his fury was all too obvious, but his voice didn’t boom. Instead, it came in a clipped growl.
Red-faced and unhappy, Bilbo tried not to look at the ribbon. He failed. At least that meant he needn’t to meet Thorin’s eyes. “Well, no, of course not. I’m not sure who told you about ribbons and bouquets, but among hobbits—No. A ribbon isn’t nothing. Still, I should have known better, and now I do.” He licked his lips. “Can’t we simply start over? This gift is a good one. That is to say, I hope it will be more to your liking.”
Thorin didn’t open the box.
This was so completely unfair that Bilbo would have protested. Fortunately, Kili snatched the gift from his uncle’s hands and removed the lid. Bilbo was so relieved to have the present opened at last that he didn’t resent the rudeness at all. Naturally, he would have preferred Thorin to have the first look, in a perfect world.
Relationships were never perfect. In the lands east of the ocean, nothing could be. All one could hope for was the chance to try.
Looking at the necklace with fresh eyes, Bilbo saw all the ways it was wanting. He ought to have used a big gold chain instead of beads. Every dwarf at the table was wearing one. That was clearly the preferred style. The oak leaf design was too elvish. The acorn too maudlin. The forget-me-nots too sentimental. It was a terrible present.
When he’d been more certain of his welcome with Thorin, making something in the Shire style felt easy and romantic. Now it seemed presumptuous.
Fili punched Gloin’s arm, snapped his fingers a few times, and received a jeweler’s glass. With which he joined his brother’s inspection of the beaded necklace. “Mithril thread?” he asked Bilbo absently.
“Oh, yes,” the hobbit replied. “It’s very pleasant to work with, and Dori said it was quite dear.”
Fili nodded, but he didn’t look up from his inspection or answer Bilbo in any other way.
Looking to Thorin, hoping to share a smile over the princely antics, Bilbo caught the king staring at him. As soon as he did so, however, Thorin’s neck snapped to the side. He, too, began inspecting the necklace closely.
“Garnets instead of rubies?” Kili asked.
“Ah, er, well.” Bilbo didn’t know how to defend his choice. He settled for the truth. “They were the right color? More like oak leaves in autumn? And they looked better next to the green ones. The bright red rocks were too flashy.”
Gloin snorted, clearly hiding a laugh. Balin kicked him very obviously.
“Make yourself useful and have a look at this setting,” Fili said, passing the jeweler’s glass and the necklace to Gloin. “I’ve never seen one in this style.”
Accepting with both hands, Gloin’s aspect became solemn. He took nearly five minutes, examining Bilbo’s acorn from every angle. Finally, he said, “Secure.”
That was all. Just, “Secure.”
Bilbo felt a bit like snatching the necklace back, throwing the jeweler’s glass into the fire, and returning to the Shire in a huff. Once again, Balin saved him.
“Yes, yes,” the amiable dwarf said, “We all respect Bilbo’s crafting and take it seriously. Now, does it pass muster or doesn’t it?”
Fili and Kili exchanged a look. Kili shrugged.
“It does,” Fili said simply.
“It’s a beautiful piece, Bilbo,” Kili added. “We were going to give you a hard time to pay you back for the flowers, but it sounds like uncle’s been doing that already.”
Fili kicked his brother under the table. “We find your gift worthy of the House of Durin, Bilbo Baggins. Uncle, do you care to accept it?”
“I will accept any gift Bilbo chooses to give me,” Thorin said. As he was still scowling, however, it was rather difficult for the hobbit to continue with his planned speech.
Even so, a Baggins did not shrink in the face of adversity. “Then I shall shower you with presents,” he promised, taking the king’s hand. “Good ones, too, not mathoms.” Pausing to consider this, Bilbo changed his mind. “Well, in fact, mostly mathoms, really, since that is your preference. All I want is to make you happy, Thorin Oakenshield. I will spend the rest of my days doing so, if you’ll let me.”
Thorin’s hand tightened on Bilbo’s, which made the hobbit smile hopefully up at him.
“Will you make me the luckiest hobbit in all the world by consenting to marry me, Thorin Oakenshield?”
“I do not deserve you.” This was not said as the sort of cheerful praise one might usually give a lover. Thorin was a king passing judgment. For a moment, Bilbo feared that despite all of his friend’s encouragement, Thorin would say no. Instead, the dwarf’s grip tightened almost to the point of pain. “But, I will have you. We will be wed when spring comes to the mountain, if that is agreeable.”
“Oh yes,” Bilbo said. His imagination ran away with him, and he immediately began picturing Thorin with primroses and hyacinth braided through his hair alongside the ribbon. This was very foolish of him, and he quashed the idea. Dwarves probably did not have many flowers at their weddings.
Someone said something else, but Bilbo was too busy grinning dreamily at Thorin to hear.
Fili snapped his fingers just off the tip of Bilbo’s nose, very rudely. “Are you ill?”
“Are you still here?” the hobbit retorted. “An ounce of politeness would allow for a newly engaged couple to share a moment alone.”
The prince laughed. So did all the rest of Bilbo’s traitorous friends. Meanwhile, Thorin rose from his seat, keeping Bilbo’s hand in his.
“We will go in the other room,” the king announced regally. For about half a second, everyone was silent, and Bilbo followed along happily. Then, clearly exhausted after his first extended period out of bed, Thorin wobbled. Swiftly, the hobbit ducked in close wrapping an arm around Thorin’s waist to steady him.
Thorin didn’t scowl. This was such an improvement over his usual reaction to signs of weakness that Bilbo returned to grinning like a loon.
Thorin loved him.
Probably.
He hadn’t actually said, yet. Thus the need for privacy. Thorin would hardly expose himself in front of all of his relations.
Upon entering the other room, Bilbo realized it was, in fact, his bedroom. Usually the hobbit was a bit faster on the uptake, but he did have Thorin’s arms around him. Sadly, being alone in his bedroom with Thorin Oakenshield was rather less of a fantasy than it would be in Bag End. While Bilbo’s kitchen was entirely serviceable and his dining room had some very impressive cutlery from the treasure hoard, his bedroom could only be described as sparse.
In truth, it was merely his bedroll from the adventure spread out in front of a fireplace. His clothes were folded neatly in a corner where he meant to put a wardrobe one day soon. At least there was a single chair, an upright, wooden seat that matched the set in Bilbo’s dining room. The hobbit pressed the injured dwarf to take it. Then he built up a fire in the grate.
Thorin was frowning again.
“You’re uncomfortable,” Bilbo observed. “We ought to get you to bed.” Flushing wildly, he added, “Your own bed.”
Eyeing the cold, stone floor of Bilbo’s room, Thorin said, “You have been knitting, sewing, and otherwise crafting comforts the entire time I have been confined to a sickbed.”
“Yes.” Although he was quite interested in returning Thorin to those comforts, the hobbit was naturally curious. “Will you tell me why that upset everyone so much? Naturally, my proposal present had to be quite valuable—made of jewels and things—but why should I not make a few blankets for you as well in my spare time? It is dreadfully drafty in here with all of this uncovered stone. A few tapestries and carpets will warm the place up a treat.”
Thorin’s eyes softened as he looked at Bilbo. His hand drifted up to stroke the acorn which dangled on its fine beaded chain about his neck. “Yet you do not make such things for your own rooms.”
“I’d have gotten around to it eventually. Once you were comfortable. And now,” Bilbo blushed a little. “Well, perhaps it is best to continue focusing on making your rooms cozy enough for two.”
“I have lived in many rooms like this one and been grateful for them in my day,” Thorin said. “I would not have you do the same in Erebor.”
Laughing, Bilbo stepped a little closer to Thorin’s chair. “We were eating off of golden plates at supper just now. Besides, it has only been a few weeks. Give me time, and I will fill our home with silk and flowers.” Bending down, Bilbo pressed a kiss to Thorin’s forehead. “I promise to leave off the lace.”
Upon receiving a kiss, Thorin took Bilbo’s hand with that besotted look the hobbit was coming to adore. Then, the king scowled again. “I like lace. If I am told the provenance.”
Bilbo laughed. “Is that the problem? That you have been in a bad mood because of being bedridden? I know you do not really dislike my embroidery.”
Daringly, the hobbit brushed his fingers against the king’s braid.
“Burning the work of your hands is unconscionable,” Thorin said. Lifting Bilbo’s fingers, he pressed a kiss to the hobbit’s palm. Bilbo’s eyes fluttered shut. Soft lips made quite a contrast to the bristles of a beard.
“Oh?”
“I do not know what a hobbit equivalent might be. Uprooting your prize tomatoes and squishing them without eating any, perhaps.”
Bilbo felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He also felt another kiss against the inside of his wrist. “Do you think tossing a present I made for you on the floor is not rude by hobbit standards? Once, Amaryllis Bracegirdle visited Bag End, decided that the hand painted vase she gave my mother six years earlier was not displayed prominently enough, and did not speak to my family for another two decades.”
The next kiss came against the back of Bilbo’s hand, just above his thumb. “Yet you do not seem as furious with me?”
“Well, I am courting you,” Bilbo said. “If you do not like the style, it is up to me to change it. Or give up my suit, but that does not seem likely. Even if you exiled me from your mountain once again, I would live in hope for all the rest of my life. A single word from you would recall me to your side. The slightest encouragement would send me to my knees. For the touch of your hand, I would face any hardship.”
Apparently, Thorin was finished with the hobbit’s hand. Tugging it to his chest, he off-balanced Bilbo enough to pull him into his lap. It was certainly much too strenuous for a recovering invalid. Bilbo would have risen at once. Except the next kiss came pressed to the side of his neck. Rising turned into squirming. Then panting once Thorin nipped him gently with sharp teeth.
“My poet,” Thorin said softly. “You seek to win me?”
With no light but the low fire, it was difficult to discern Thorin’s expression. He seemed to be blushing beneath his beard.
“Is that so ridiculous?” Bilbo asked. “For I have done other impossible things, once I set my mind to it. And my heart is set on winning the love of a hero. Even if it takes everything I have.”
“Not ridiculous,” Thorin murmured, “but perhaps impossible. You cannot win my love, Bilbo. It is already yours. All we can gain is a greater understanding of its expression.”
So as their lips met in a sweet crush, their hearts joined. Then, the hobbit knew all of his gestures would be welcome henceforth. Even if they came in the form of lacy doilies.