Work Text:
What's Left of You
The last fading rays of sunlight reach out toward them, night threatening to fall soon. Flocks of crows flap overhead, their raspy caws the only sound in the still, silent air. There’s a mugginess in the air, summer is in full swing bringing wildflowers that sprout up from every nook and cranny in the crumbling stones around. Bilbo’s been going around picking enough to make a bouquet with every colour imaginable that sits in a gleaming vase in the front hall. It contrasts harshly with the piles of gold that surround it, but all the dwarves find a peculiar joy in it, so Thorin lets it stay.
But now it’ll have to go, once he’s dealt with The Problem.The scent of treachery has been in the air for weeks now, a rat scurrying amongst them. Thorin knew that, but he never suspected it to be the hobbit that stands in front of him. He can see it now, sweet innocent Bilbo somehow getting his grubby little paws on his jewel and hiding it. Just the thought makes his teeth grind together.
Relax, he tells himself, it’ll be solved soon enough.
All Thorin has to do is let go. The pleas of the others are nothing to him, they don’t understand what he needs to do, why he needs to do it. There’s a tiny little voice in his head that is screaming at him, pleading with him to STOP, but it’s drowned out by the rest of his thoughts. His paranoia squashes everything that even starts to question what he’s doing.
But then his traitorous brain flashes back to the past, reminding him of the miles they’d traveled together, the joy that had overcome him whenever they were simply talking. Laughing with one particular hobbit as they rode across fields of waving silver grass brought him a high that he had been unwillingly chasing since arriving at Erebor. Everything had changed once he’d laid eyes on his inheritance, and he’s slowly realizing it was for the worst. A lifetime of dwelling underground, surrounded by gold as far as the eye can see, or living in a tiny hole in the side of a hill, with the one he’s grown fonder of than he could ever imagine. Such a simple choice is becoming more difficult by the day.
That fool of a man, Bard, is a tiny speck below them, standing beside the leader of those deceitful, traitorous elves. Rows upon rows of gold clad soldiers stretch out as far as the eye can see, ready to strike at any moment. Anger swells within him, burning hot in his veins. All traces of his reminiscing leave his body in an instant as Bard yells up at him, something about negotiating. How dare they resist his rightful rule, his birthright? His hand clenches the torn fabric of Bilbo’s shirt a little tighter, and he pushes him out farther, so he dangles over empty air.
He looks down at him for the first time, and fear stares back. Bilbo’s eyes are wider than saucers, a wounded look within them that Thorin cannot ignore. Betrayal and hurt, as well as a whole bunch of other tangled things, force his gaze away. Now is not the time to be a soft-hearted fool. Before he can convince himself of anything different he forces himself to let go, all too aware of the gasps that echo from behind him.
Immediately, a flash of grim satisfaction washes over him as he hears Bard and Thranduil talking in hushed tones below him, staring up with knitted brows. If they didn’t believe he was serious before, they must now. They’ll be forced to take him seriously. Then he realizes that he’s made a terrible mistake. His heart squeezes against his own accord, but it’s too late to do anything, all he can do is watch, helpless, as Bilbo’s small form plummets through the air. He randomly, suddenly, desperately wants to reach out, to scream his name, but he’d be no king if he did. Emotions are unfit for someone of his position, they only bring weakness, which is something he can’t afford to show. He tries to remember that Bilbo is nothing but a thief and a liar to him now, he can’t feel this much for someone who took his trust and broke it. So he pushes down the sorrow that wells up, threatening to form a lump in his throat, and turns coldly back to the kingdom he once called home.
…
The cavernous rooms that he strides through suddenly seem empty, devoid of everything except for the layers and layers of unyielding stone. Thorin has the arkenstone clutched tightly in his fist, and it pulses gently, almost whispering to him. It tries to convince him that it was all worth it, he has what he wants, so why is his stomach queasy and why is there a tremble in his hand? His breath suddenly comes in ragged gasps, and he braces himself against the wall, pain spiking up as the rock digs into his palm. The world crashes in on him, all the light seeming to get sucked away, leaving only the arkenstone to glow dimly before him.
There’s a tightness in his chest that wasn’t there a minute ago, and now it chokes him. Tears carve marks down his cheeks–when did that start?–but he doesn’t bother wiping them away. They’ll just come back, again and again and again, haunting him for an eternity that never ends. And now he has no anchor, no escape from the inescapable. He’s gone, and it’s all Thorin’s fault.
As he hovers on the edge of hysteria, about to swan dive into an ocean of turmoil, he hears footsteps behind him. Frantically wiping tears from his eyes, he turns to face Balin with the grimmest look he can muster.
“Balin,” he says gruffly, arms crossed.
“Thorin,” Balin replies stiffly.
There’s a tense moment of silence, neither dwarf wanting to start a proper conversation about what just happened. Thorin is just about to say farewell and walk off to mope somewhere else when Balin speaks up.
“Why?”
It’s a simple question, a mask hiding the true amount of meaning that comes with it. And, it’s the hardest to answer. Because Thorin doesn’t know. That’s the truth of it all. If you were to ask him not even a day ago, he would say it’s because he has to protect them all, from the spies in their midst. There wouldn’t be a single doubt in his mind that what he did was the right thing, but now, he’s not too sure of anything.
But of course, Balin can’t know that. Who knows what would happen if people found out? He’s the king, and kings don’t have thoughts like these, ever. His father is the one to thank for that lesson, he made sure that Thorin knew how to hide his true feelings.
Balin is staring at him, waiting for an answer that he can’t give. He pulls his shoulders back, tilting his chin the slightest bit up and stares icily down at him. “Becuase he wasn’t to be trusted. Who knows what else he would’ve taken? I will not allow thieves into my mountain.”
“Your mountain?” Balin gazes back at him with infuriating calmness. “What happened to the rest of us? We are all Durin’s folk, Thorin, and while you may be king, this mountain isn’t yours alone.”
“My father, and his father, and his father before all ruled Erebor, and now it is mine to keep safe. This gold is mine, and I won’t let a single coin slip away without punishment. If you know of anyone else hiding secrets from me, tell me. If not, get out of my sight.”
Balin opens his mouth, as if to say something, but thinks better of it and turns to walk off. Thorin can feel the sadness and frustration that emanates off the older dwarf, and he suddenly feels like a child all over again, facing the disappointment of his father. That little boy still lives inside him, never properly consoled but still torn apart from his father’s death. Thorin’s never dwelled in that part of his brain, and he never, ever will.
…
They’re all avoiding him now, scurrying away when he approaches, only speaking when spoken too. Thorin hears the whispering, and feels the glances thrown his way as he walks by. The crown he wore with pride now weighs him down, a symbol of the ruler he vowed to never be. Never before did he notice how frantic he’s gotten, how his beard grows thick and his eyes are rimmed with red. Never before has he seen the apprehension, the fear, in his companions' faces. Now, all he wants to do is throw himself down on his knees and apologize. He would, he really would, but he’s certain that would change nothing. If anything, it would make them run, and never look back, and he can’t be alone in this mountain, he just can’t.
He’s locked the Arkenstone away, but can’t make himself throw away the key. Some selfish part of him still wants it, still craves its power. But if Bilbo was really gone, then Thorin can’t let that be in vain. It was his hand that doomed him, and however long he may remain in this place, he will never forget that.
…
A week after, he’s striding along the battlement, surveying the army that still looms at the gate when he hears hushed conversation from behind a stone pillar. His curiosity gets the better of him, and instead of interrupting, he steps silently into the shadows, ears perked.
“He’s gone right mad, we can all see it, so why are we still here?” That’s Kili.
“Oh, he went mad a long time ago, as soon as we set foot in this accursed mountain.” And there’s Fili. “And you know why we can’t leave, he won’t let us.”
“Yeah but do we actually know that? None of us have tried,” Kili says.
“Do you want to end up like Bilbo?” There’s a moment of thick silence. “I didn’t think so.”
Kili lets out a long sigh, and Thorin hears him slump to the ground. “All I wanted was to be back home, and now we’re stuck on the wrong side of the wall. We didn’t ask for this, Fili, why are we getting punished?”
“I know, it’s not fair, but it’s where we’re stuck, whether we like it or not.”
Thorin is filled with guilt, his gut clenching at the words. How was he blind enough to not see what was happening right in front of him? They’re miserable, even more than he thought, and it’s all thanks to him. Just another thing he’s managed to screw up in the past weeks. He debates stepping out to confront them, but what would be the point? They wouldn’t say another word if he revealed himself, he knows that for sure. Instead, he ghosts away, leaving them to their treasonous talks.
…
Bard comes to the gate yet again, flanked this time by Gandalf and a company of elvish archers. His words bounce right off Thorin, words that once kindled rage inside him are now meaningless. He’s tempted to give in to their demands, enough so that he climbs down to meet them face to face, gracing them with his presence. The surprise on Bard’s face is comical, like he’s built Thorin up to be some stubborn old goat who would rather die in the mountain than be on the same ground as him. And he supposes, a couple weeks ago, he would love to be known as such.
“Please.” It’s the first time he’s heard Bard beg, and his gaze snaps up to meet the other man’s. “The elves brought us food, but that’s all gone, and we need what you have in that mountain. They can’t survive.”
“Thorin.” Gandalf speaks up before Bard has a chance to open his mouth, his icy blue eyes piercing into Thorin's soul. “You know what we want, and I know that look in your eye. You’ve changed, and for the better, I hope.”
Thorin sees the incredulous look Bard gives the old wizard, and chuckles wryly to himself. He would be doing the same thing if that was him, he can barely believe he’s changed.
“Let’s hope for all our sakes that I have,” he says with a tentative smile. “For now at least.”
“So you’re willing to cooperate with our demands?” Bard asks quickly, stepping forward. “It’s not much we ask of you, Thorin, just enough to keep these people alive through winter. We can talk more once the snow melts.”
Is he willing? He doesn’t really know. His brain is too scattered to make proper decisions right now, but this does seem like a good thing to do. Doubts form fast in his mind, wouldn’t they all try to storm Erebor once the wind is warm? Yes, they might, he realizes. But that's a problem for another day, and it might come, but it won’t be soon. So yes, he is willing to keep Bard’s people alive. What have they ever done to harm him, nothing, so why shouldn’t he?
Clearing his throat, Thorin gruffly agrees, holding his hand out. He watches Bard fight back a smile as they shake hands and feels the tiniest spark of warmth in his chest. Bilbo would’ve been proud, he’s sure of it. Bilbo. This practically all happened because of him and he can’t even witness it. The ember in his chest is promptly snuffed as the creature within him rears its ugly head and growls at him. Your fault, your fault, your fault.
Then a hand lands on his back startles him back to the present and he forces a smile on his face. Gandalf is staring into him again, brow furrowed. Thorin’s shoulders straighten and he nods solemnly at him. He’s fine, as long as he doesn’t dwell on, well, anything. And with that, he turns, letting out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding tight, and strides back to his home. Erebor must be shared, he knows that now, and so it shall be.
...
“Let’s go, let’s go, these people need our help!” Thorin’s voice booms from where he stands, watching the flurry of activity in front of him. “Bofur, Bombur, grab those crates, yes, the potatoes, and put them in that cart over there. Yep good, thank you!”
There’s a strange lightness in his step as he jogs over to where a handful of the company are loading gallons of ale into a rickety, wooden wagon. He’s not happy, no, he’s far away from that, but actually doing something helps his melancholy state. The dwarves look at him differently, with respect rather than fear, and smiles flit across their faces with ease. Knowing they’re not suffering anymore makes him feel the slightest bit better, but he will never be truly joyful again. He ruined that for himself, and he knows it.
“Thorin, where do you want these?” Dwalin is suddenly beside him, arms full of wool cloaks. “There’s no more room in any carts.”
“Give them here, I’ll take them down.” Thorin secures his fur-lined coat tightly, the winter winds are bitter these days, and takes them all from Dwalin. “Thanks, Dwalin.” He walks over to where his pony feasts on an array of grasses and piles the cloaks into a couple makeshift bags he’s attached to her saddle. Popping a few loose packages in as well, he leads her to the entrance, now free of rocks, and calls for a couple dwarves. They all leave together, dragging overflowing carts behind them, off to go save hundreds from certain death.
Snow falls silently as they trot over the desecrated stones of a once mighty bridge, slowly covering the landscape in a blanket of ice. Small plumes of smoke rise from the ruined city of Dale, shivering people huddling around flickering fires. They look up fearfully as their procession passes, their eyes alighting on the covered wagons. A trail follows them, hope filling their starved gazes as the humans start to whisper. Thorin’s slightly nervous that they’re going to simply climb up and start snatching anything they can get their hands on. These are desperate people, he hadn’t realized how bad it was until now. How could he be so blind?
They reach the main square, and his jaw clenches when he sees Thranduil sitting astride his snow white elk. Just because he’s helping Bard doesn’t mean he needs to make peace with these pompous elves. As if sensing his bitter thoughts, Gandalf seems to appear from thin air and steps in between the two kings. Thorin tears his eyes from the elf’s piercing stare, forcing himself to take a breath and wear a cold smile. This whole mission balances on civility, he can’t go ruining it just to snap a few words at a king who won’t bat an eye.
“Dwarves of Erebor, we thank you,” Gandalf booms, arms sweeping wide. “Your contribution will help tide us through what I’m sure will be a harsh winter, we could not survive without you.”
Tentative cheers rise up from the gathered as they realize they will not die in the coming months and bodies swarm forward, arms outstretched to grab whatever they can. Order does not exist for the starved and dying, no matter how much the elves try to create it. Their yelling is meaningless to the horde, and eventually they give up and let chaos unfold. The dwarves hastily step back, letting their carts fall to the masses as Bard walks forward. He climbs atop a broken pillar and raises his sword, opening his mouth to shout down.
“People of Laketown!” He yells, waiting for them all to quiet down before speaking again. “Is this how we show our thanks? Really? Are we no better than the scum that ruled us not three months ago?”
No one dares to reply, looking at their feet as they realize their actions. Then a man of about 30, headstrong and filled with rage calls out from the back, “But Bard, we haven’t eaten for days, how are we supposed to be patient when this fool just decided to help us?”
He points accusingly at Thorin. “We’ve been asking for his help for so long, and it’s taken him until now to give it! You’re a shit king, and an even shittier person, ‘King Under the Mountain'."
It’s not the words that cut too deep, though they do still sting, it’s the jeers and hoots that rise up. His blood starts to boil as he watches them heckling while standing with food he provided clutched in their greedy paws. He could take it all back if he wanted, and he has half a mind to do exactly that. What would they say then, as their bones begin to wither and they start to collapse on the street? They would beg and plead for his forgiveness, and he wouldn’t give it to them, not after this.
The man is still shouting, his face twisted with rage, when an axe comes flying over Thorin’s head and buries itself into his chest. His eyes open comically wide before he wobbles and collapses to the ground, dead in mere moments. Shocked silence fills the air, everyone gawking at the motionless body laying faceup, and Thorin turns slowly behind him. His company looks back at him, most just as shocked as he is, all except for one. Dwalin flashes him a small smile and wink, shoving his hands into his pockets. An axe is now missing from his hip, and he would wager quite a lot of gold that it’s the one currently being wrenched out of the heckler. He gives the dwarf a slight nod, tamping down his grin. Although he probably shouldn't be happy about what just happened, it's good to know some people are still loyal.
“Barbarians!” The screams start, along with a stampede to get the hell away. “We should’ve never trusted them, they just want to kill us all!”
In a handful of seconds, the square is empty and blood is slowly spreading towards them, staining the ground scarlet. Bard sighs as he climbs down from his spot above them and fixes Thorin with a tired look.
“Did you really have to do that?” he asks, rubbing his temples. “He was just angry and needed someone to blame, that didn’t mean you had to kill him.”
“It wasn’t me this time,” Thorin responds, crossing his arms. Bard looks sceptical before Gandalf cuts in. “Dwalin? Anything you have to say?”
“I’m not letting some twig talk that badly about my king, I’m loyal to him and him alone,” Dwalin retorts. “He deserves everything he got.”
Murmurs of agreement follow this statement from the other dwarves, and Thorin can’t hold back a grin anymore. “Thank you Dwalin, I consider my honour thoroughly defended.”
“Thorin,” Gandalf barks angrily, “that was one life that was taken with no decent reason, do you know how many have suffered to be here? Enough blood has been shed, let alone so carelessly.”
He has the decency to look a little ashamed, Gandalf is right in the end, but- “Did you hear how he was speaking about me? How am I supposed to let that stand?”
“You suck it up and take it.” Bard nods at Gandalf’s words, smug bastard. “You’re a king now, Thorin Oakenshield, and you must learn to deal with people that are unhappy about your rule. You cannot go killing everyone who disagrees with you.”
Thorin bites his tongue before he says something regrettable, Bilbo’s face flashing in his mind. Right. That’s what he’s trying to get at. He meets Gandalf’s cool stare with pain in his own and knows the old man sees it too. Bilbo was a different thing altogether, though, some random teenager isn’t as important as the hobbit he still holds dearly in his heart.
“Fine,” he says, turning to face his friends. “All of you, no more killing unless you or I are in danger, alright?”
They all nod, some more hesitantly than others, but now he can trust them enough not to start on some random killing spree. You never know with dwarves. And with the sun steadily sinking below the mountains, casting long shadows over the gathered kings, Thorin bids them all a goodnight and makes his way back to his silent palace of stone.
…
A full moon rises that night; Thorin watches it from where he lies under a pile of thick woolen blankets. Its light fills his small room, illuminating everything in a soft, silver light. He tosses and turns, trying desperately to fall asleep and failing miserably. His mind races with thoughts that he barely has time to notice before more come along. And whenever his eyes manage to shut, sleep beckoning to him, he sees Bilbo's face as he plummets from the wall. It's been almost a month and he can still make out every detail of that split second.
With a frustrated growl, Thorin throws off his blankets and leaves the comfort of his bed. Rubbing his face, he goes to stand at the window and lets himself do nothing but watch the clouds crawl across the darkened sky. His breathing slowly slows, heartbeat returning to a normal pace, his whole body relaxing.
Just as he's about to give sleeping another try, he spots something dart behind a nearby boulder outside. He watches intently for any other sign of movement, and is about to look away when it rushes into the open and to the twisting stone steps that lead to the top of the mountain. His back immediately straightens, his drowsiness fleeing in an instant. Subconsciously, his hand reaches for the Arkenstone, glowing dimly from where it's wrapped up on his nightstand. A part of him still craves the voice it put in his mind, telling him how much it loved him. At least he had a sense of security when it still had him in its clutches.
Against his better judgement, he snatches it up and shoves it into his pocket. Then he throws on a cloak, grabs an axe from his nightstand and makes his way down to the closest door. He thought he recognized the shadow, something in the way it moved, reminded him of... No, it can't be.
Still, he sprints up the steps, taking them two at a time, his traitorous heart thumping too fast. His breaths come as ragged gasps by the time he reaches the plateau that overlooks the valley. Little speckles of flame dot Erebor hundreds of feet down, smoke rising lazily into the air and obscuring the stars. Thorin pulls his cloak tighter as a bitter wind bites into him, a shiver running up his body. He scans the darkness, searching for what he's sure is there.
A muted cough seems to ring out in the thick silence, and his pulse spikes as he inches closer. "Hello?"
He squints into the gloom, barely able to make out the figure standing before him. It's right on the edge of a sheer cliff, the only thing between it and certain death is a couple of inches and a will to live. Boy, does he know how that feels, trying your hardest to resist the calls that promise you peace if you just take that leap of faith.
"You there, I wouldn't recommend doing that," he calls out, approaching the stranger slowly, like a spooked fawn. "Trust me, it's not as appealing once your in the air."
"And how do you know that?" the stranger asks, their voice flat but undeniably recognizable.
It's as if all the air has been sucked out of him, escaping in a small gasp that leaves him speechless, standing there like a fool. No. How? The not-so-much-a-stranger-anymore turns slowly around to face him. His eyes are rimmed by dark half moons, and there's a lifelessness in his whole posture that scares Thorin, but it is undeniably Bilbo Baggins.
Without thinking, he takes two huge steps and envelopes the hobbit, his hobbit, in an embrace that almost breaks bone. He doesn't know what to feel, there's too much of everything, everywhere. His breaths are short and shallow, he supposes he's in a sort of shock. Then what he's doing catches up to him and he releases Bilbo, stumbling back.
"Wh-what are you doing here? How are you here?" He stutters, blinking furiously as though it would help his broken mind. "Bilbo, how?"
"I should be the one asking the questions, Thorin, I think I deserve that much." Thorin can hear the same emotions running through his head thick in Bilbo's voice. "I've been gone long enough to think about what happened a hundred times over, and no matter the amount of times I replay my own death, it never made sense."
He's quiet for a moment, Thorin not daring to interrupt whatever's coming. Then a question that seems to haunt him comes straight from Bilbo's mouth. "Why, Thorin?"
And Thorin breaks.
His chest shutters with sobs, all his suppressed emotions spilling out and overwhelming him in an instant. Yes, he's relieved and thrilled and so, so happy that Bilbo's alive, but shame overpowers everything else. He'd barely come to terms with the fact that he had done what he had, and now Bilbo has come back like a ghost to remind him of all his wrong doings. A hand has his lungs in a vice like grip, squeezing all the air out and leaving him wheezing. The world is spinning before him, unfocusing and causing everything to go blurry.
When he hits the ground, he hardly feels it. Something's wrong with him, and the knowledge that he's stuck in this cycle of panic terrifies him even more. He's vaguely aware of Bilbo dropping down beside him, their knees brush and the sparks that shoot up his body from that contact do nothing but add the muddled confusion in his mind. His throat is already raw from all his crying, and all he can do is hiccup sadly as his head drops between his knees. The feeling that everything is wrong lingers, clutching him with icy fingers.
The hand that starts to rub his back makes him flinch instinctively away from it, pulling him back to reality. He's hunched over, panicked and shaking uncontrollably. Bilbo kneels only a few inches away, concern written in the lines of his face. He forces himself to close his eyes and breathe deeply for a minute, trying desperately to quell the terror within him.
When he opens his eyes again, his gaze settles on the brightest shining star in the inky sky, twinkling cheerfully with not a care in the world. Gradually, Thorin returns to himself, bit by bit piecing himself together. With a deep sigh, he turns to face Bilbo, still sitting cross-legged, and allows a small smile to slip into his face.
"Hi."
Bilbo can't help but return a smile of his own. "Hey."
Neither one wants to talk about the inevitable, but Thorin clasps his hands together and does it anyway. "So. You want answers."
His reply is an incredulous chuckle. "If you would be so kind."
"I was possessed, we both know that, but that's no excuse for what I did. The Arkenstone, it was my doom, and I suppose you knew that the minute you saw me look at it. Something changed in me when I held that accursed stone, I felt it and I didn't listen to myself. Everything would've been better if it had never come into my hands, but it did." Thorin looks up, watching Bilbo for any sign that he understands what he's saying. And his heart leaps when he sees him looking back with the tiniest bit of sympathy on his face. He has a chance, a small one, but at least he has one.
"And when I- you know, I wasn't in my right mind. All I could focus on was getting that stupid stone, regardless of who I hurt. You, Bilbo, you were the one that pulled me out of the abyss I was stuck in. As soon as you were... gone, it's like something snapped in my brain. And I couldn't bear to live with myself after that. But, somehow, I managed to keep going, slowly pulling myself back to the person I once was. And now, now I'm finally here, and I'm so, so sorry."
Tears are rolling down his cheeks again, but at least this time he knows why. And from the sniffling he hears that isn't his, he's not the only one crying. "Bilbo, I- I love-"
"Don't. Please, don't," Bilbo's voice is hoarse. "I shouldn't love you after all this, I shouldn't."
"No, you don't have to, but I do," Thorin interrupts. "I love you, Bilbo Baggins, I have since the moment I laid eyes on you, and there's nothing I can do to make it go away."
"Oh you silly dwarf, why do I love you like I do?" Bilbo replies, putting his face in his hands. "After all you've done, after you tried to kill me, I'm a fool to love you."
"Then be a fool, but be one with me," Thorin pleads, scooching closer. "You may never forgive me, and that's alright, I wouldn't forgive me either, but at least try, please."
He drops to his knees and Bilbo covers his mouth with his hand. "Thorin, you don't have to-"
"You can say no, I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want. That's not me anymore, and as long as you're happy, I'll be ok. I have to ask, or I could never live with myself, but I won't push you anymore if you say so, ok?"
Bilbo softens the tiniest bit, only visible in the slumping of his shoulders and the tenderness that appears in his gaze. But to Thorin, who's spent months observing the many strange ways of this hobbit, the changes are all too clear. Not daring to get his hopes up, Thorin rises to his feet again, waiting with bated breath for an answer. Even the chirping of the crickets has stopped, the world still and full of anticipation.
"Oh Thorin, how could I refuse?" His voice is quiet, but manages to ring out as clearly as a tolling bell. "You aren't forgiven for all you've done, you threw me off a damn wall, but as you said, that wasn't really you. It will take time, as all things do, but we'll have each other right? Us against the world, always."
And with that, he surges forward and presses his lips to Thorin's. He smiles into the kiss, pulling Bilbo close and resting their foreheads together. Relief courses over him in waves, washing away the rot that filled him. To feel Bilbo's curls, as soft as a lamb's coat, threading though his fingers is a sensation he never thought he'd have the privilege of feeling. Every freckle he's admired from afar he now gets to count, there are exactly thirty-two. His heart flips as he realizes he can now count them every day. He brushes a thumb over them, and is rewarded with the blush that rises in Bilbo's cheeks.
Pressing a dainty kiss to his nose, Thorin holds Bilbo's face gently in his hands and just stares, taking in every tiny detail. If all he had to do was look at this hobbit, the most breathtaking, gorgeous and wonderful person to ever exist, he'd like nothing more. Bilbo smiles back up at him, a ray of the warmest sunshine and glowing in the darkness. Thorin's beam of light.
Without a need for words, they twine their fingers together and walk back down the stairs together. A lone wolf howls somewhere among the snow capped hills, what would've been a mournful sound just a day ago is now heard as one of hope. The past weeks, well, it's been a tumultuous time, and now it seems everything is starting to settle into place. As Bilbo said, it's not perfect, it might never be, but they have each other now, and that's all Thorin could ever ask for.