Work Text:
“Fly, you fools!” he cried, and was gone.
The fire went out and darkness descended again, and for one prolonged moment, Thorin felt himself rooted to the stone he stood upon. It cannot be- but before he could finish the thought, Bilbo’s cry pulled him from his horror-stricken reverie. “Gandalf!” the hobbit bellowed, and Thorin barely had the sense to grab Bilbo up by his waist as he tried to push past, back to the bridge.
“No, Bilbo!” Thorin said, “We must obey his last command!” Bilbo still stared wide-eyed at the spot where Gandalf had stood only moments ago, the remains of the broken bridge of Khazad-dûm jutting out over the chasm. Thorin took Bilbo by his shoulders, and finally Bilbo turned to look at him. “Bilbo, we must leave!”
Bilbo nodded sharply, turned, and ran to follow Dwalin, Gloin, and the two elves, who were moving to lead the charge out of the mines, Dwalin shouting “This way!”
Legolas and Tauriel fired arrow after arrow over their shoulders as they made their way to the narrow corridor that would take them to the gates.
Doom, doom, rolled the drums in the deep.
“Aragorn!” Thorin heard Boromir call, and Thorin looked to find that Aragorn was still facing the bridge, even as the goblins and orcs began to convene on the opposite side of the fissure.
The goblin bowmen let their arrows fly. “Aragorn!” Thorin cried even as he turned to run after Bilbo, ducking and weaving as he went. “Aragorn!” And finally the last of their company came back to himself and made his retreat.
The flight from the bridge remains a blur in Thorin’s memory. Shock, and rage with no outlet, burned everything from his mind but the sight of Bilbo’s back before him and the sounds of Boromir’s heavy footfalls behind him, followed by the slightly lighter steps of Aragorn in the rear. The drums sounded in the distance, relentlessly, doom, doom.
How long they ran, whether mere moments or an hour, Thorin could not rightfully say, only that eventually Dwalin led them up again, following the runes marking the passageways, and the air became fresher, and then they saw a flash of daylight, and a wide hall opened before them and was flooded sunshine, and they dashed madly for the Great Gates.
Eight members of the fellowship emerged from the darkness together, running down the age-worn stairs and into the bright light of midday; one remained behind, and only when the immediate danger and the initial shock had worn off did the company feel the keen edges of their grief. On the rocky hills beyond the gates of Moria, the Dimrill Dale, they halted.
Thorin fled from mortal peril in the halls of his ancestors and found himself back on the battlefield that hosted his nightmares. Azanulbizar.
He shook with something stronger than grief and heavier than rage, and felt his eyes burning.
Thorin heard sobbing, quiet and deep, and looked to see Dwalin with his head bowed in mourning for the wizard, his tears staining his beard. Thorin thought he could not stand the sight, not here, where he had witnessed Dwalin in the same state, bloodied and bruised and battle-weary, so many decades ago. The day that Dwalin lost his father; and Thorin lost his grandfather, his father, and his brother from one sunrise to the next.
He could not go to his shield-brother, he could not face Dwalin’s grief without facing his own. Gloin would have to comfort him, if he could.
Thorin’s fury was like a caged thing, a great beast pacing behind bars.
Khazad-dûm, he thought, Moria! How many more dear lives will this accursed place claim!
“We cannot linger.” Thorin realized that Aragorn was speaking. “Legolas, Boromir.”
“Give them a moment,” Boromir said. Thorin looked at the man and saw tears in his eyes. “For pity’s sake,” he pleaded.
“By nightfall these hills will be swarming with orcs. We must go.”
And finally Thorin looked around the desolate rocky landscape and saw that Bilbo had walked many paces away from the group and was facing opposite his companions.
“Bilbo!” Thorin called, and started to move towards him. But Bilbo turned, and what Thorin saw in his face halted his movements. With his jaw set firmly, and his cheeks dry, Bilbo met Thorin’s gaze with such sadness, his grief blended with determination, loss etched in his features and tears standing in his eyes. Bilbo, whose bravery and goodness had known no bounds, whose love had warmed and comforted Thorin, should not be standing outside the Halls of Durin with such restrained misery. Thorin’s stomach twisted.
No, he thought, and without any conscious decision to do so, he turned back in the direction of the mines.
“No!” he roared, and charged back towards the gates, Orcrist raised in his hand and flashing in the sunlight.
“Thorin!” cried Aragorn and Boromir.
“No! Thorin!” Dwalin yelled.
Thorin was fast, and light on his feet when the need arose, but the two men had the advantage of longer strides on the uneven terrain and quickly overcame him. He never reached the gate. Their combined strength was barely enough to hold the dwarf, and as he struggled against Boromir and Aragorn, Thorin became aware that he was yelling, his voice hoarse and his cries an unintelligible slur of Khuzdul and Westron, as he rained curses down upon the orcs in Moria, Durin’s Bane, even Khazad-dûm itself. His face was wet and hot.
Just a moment later, Dwalin and Gloin joined the squabble and spoke soothing words in the language of the dwarrows, but Thorin heard not one bit of it, and shoved against Dwalin when he tried to hold him. "Calm down, laddie," Gloin said. Still, Thorin struggled to get free, to return to the mines and slaughter every orc within, to rid the place of the filth that had taken so many good and beloved people and sent them to their doom.
Thorin’s grief, bottled up for decades, a century, channeled into a rage that burned through him; a near-madness, though not of the same ilk as the dragon sickness, but a simpler and more common ailment; the pain of loss too great to bear.
And yet, Thorin’s strength abated in mere moments, and he sunk to his knees. Boromir and Aragorn stepped away, as Thorin panted and stared at the entrance to the cursed halls of his ancestors. Even Dwalin and Gloin stepped aside, and Dwalin stopped his quiet murmurings of comfort, and then Thorin felt a small and strong hand on his shoulder.
He looked up into Bilbo’s face once more. “Thorin,” Bilbo said, moving to fill Thorin’s field of vision and block his view of the gate, “we must leave this place.” The hobbit placed his other hand on Thorin’s shoulder and gripped, hard. “We have to get away from here.”
Thorin nodded mutely, and scrubbed a bloody, dirty hand across his face to wipe away the wetness of tears. He rose to his feet and pulled Bilbo against himself. They embraced, briefly but fiercely, Bilbo drawing one long, ragged breath against Thorin’s leather-clad chest before they released one another. Bilbo nodded up at Thorin and together they turned.
Aragorn was speaking in the elven tongue to Tauriel and Legolas; for her part, the once-captain of Thranduil's guard stood at attention, and her face was blank. Legolas looked lost and broken, like a small child. Not for the first time, Thorin wondered if Thranduil’s son was not worth at least ten of his father. Gloin and Dwalin, together with Boromir, were speaking to one another in muted tones, each with a hand to the other’s shoulder.
Brothers-in-arms, all of them, from different peoples and different kingdoms, and yet here, on this ancient battlefield, they all mourned the same friend.
In the golden woods of Lothlorien, the remaining members of the company found a measure of peace. Aragorn, Legolas, and to some extent Tauriel, seemed almost happy to be there. Even Thorin had to admit that, for an elf dwelling, the glowing lanterns, high canopies, and gently-tinkling fountains were beautiful.
Thorin would have been content to stay in the quarters that had been given them, and talk quietly with Gloin and Dwalin and Bilbo until they were all rested enough to move on. But Bilbo wanted to wander the woods, and listen to the songs of the Elves, and so Thorin went with him, the pair walking together sometimes hand-in-hand.
They spoke quietly of trifles and common things; Thorin had not the heart to discuss his behavior outside the Great Gates, to speak to anyone, even Bilbo, about his memories of that place. He would have talked about Gandalf, but he sensed that Bilbo would rather not, and so stayed his tongue.
The Elves sang almost ceaselessly through the whole first day of their stay in Lorien, and though Thorin did not understand the words, he knew they sang in mourning for the wizard. Legolas refused to translate their songs, saying that the loss was still too near, and though perhaps Bilbo could have translated, he didn’t offer to.
And so passed their first day in the golden wood, and Thorin felt himself already growing restless from inactivity. He thought to ask Dwalin to spar with him, but the dwarf spent most of his time in solitude, mourning losses both past and present in his own way, or in conversation with the two men of their party, discussing which possible course they might next take. For his part, Thorin knew that he would go with Bilbo on whichever path he chose, be it to Gondor or straight to Mordor itself. His rank as a king had no bearing on this quest, as far as he was concerned, and he was content to wait upon Bilbo’s decision. This left him little to do at present.
Thorin had no desire to dwell on Gandalf’s death, for what good would that accomplish? He felt the loss more keenly than he cared to admit, even to himself, and he suspected that Bilbo was deeply hurt. The hobbit had considered the wizard a friend for many years. Though Thorin considered his relationship with Gandalf to have been less straight-forward, he respected his wisdom, bravery, kindness, and usefulness as their guide.
Most of all, Thorin mourned the loss of Bilbo’s dear friend, and his heart was heavy when he thought of Bilbo’s grief.
And yet the hobbit had not shed a single tear, at least not that Thorin had seen. He considered Bilbo’s claim to “respectability,” his generally closed-off nature, the years that had passed during which Bilbo gave no outward sign for Thorin to read that he cared for him as more than a friend. Thorin wondered yet again at Bilbo’s resilience, even as he privately thought that it would probably do the hobbit some good to acknowledge that Gandalf was gone, and that it hurt to know it.
Night fell in shades of grey and silver in Lothlorien, and the members of the fellowship found their own sleeping areas and began to turn in for the night. Gloin and Dwalin snored quietly in the tented area next to where Thorin and Bilbo had stashed their meager belongings, and Thorin noted with some gratitude that Aragorn, Boromir, and the two elves of their company had also chosen sleeping quarters that were far enough away to offer Bilbo and Thorin the first real measure of privacy they had had since Rivendell.
“Well,” Bilbo said as he stripped off his traveling coat, “these are the first real beds we’ve seen in quite some time, and the last we’ll be seeing for a while, I’d wager.”
Thorin debated for a moment about removing his leather and armor, and decided that it was rather likely that the elven city was indeed safe. “I’ve no doubt you’re right on that account.” Thorin removed everything but his undershirt and breeches, carefully folding and stacking his outer garments.
With no small amount of embarrassment, due to the relative newness of the change in their relationship, Thorin said, “I would share your bed, Bilbo, if you would have me.”
Bilbo laughed quietly. “Of course, Thorin. And you don’t have to ask. I rather expected we would, after, well…” Bilbo trailed off, and smiled sheepishly at Thorin. Thorin returned the smile and felt warmth as only Bilbo could instill in him.
They laid themselves quietly down on one of the low mattresses, Thorin laying on his side facing Bilbo, Bilbo on his back. The dwarf took the opportunity to study Bilbo’s features more closely – he noted the sharper edges of his cheek bones and jaw, the deeper lines and shadows around his eyes, and especially the somewhat vacant way that he stared up into the roof of their shelter.
“You are thinking of Gandalf.”
Bilbo blinked, and turned his head towards Thorin. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I am remembering his fireworks, and his merry laughter, his quick anger, and-” here Bilbo drew in a sharp breath and broke eye contact with Thorin in favor of the ceiling again. Thorin saw the way Bilbo’s throat worked around the words he did not say, and the glassiness of his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Thorin murmured.
Again Bilbo turned quickly to look at him, and he smiled a hollow smile. “Whatever for? It’s not your fault. It’s just…” Bilbo looked away, then back again, and smiled again though it did not reach his eyes.
“He was a dear friend to you.”
Bilbo huffed out a sound that could have been a laugh, had Thorin not been so sure it was something more like a sob. “To all of us, yes. But we must move on from it, mustn’t we?” Bilbo tried again for a smile, and this time Thorin could clearly see the tears in Bilbo’s eyes.
Thorin reached out his arm slowly to Bilbo, who looked for a moment like he might protest, but Thorin only pulled him close and pressed his face into the hobbit’s hair.
“I am sorry, Bilbo. I cared for him, too.”
Bilbo’s arm came around Thorin’s chest. He shifted until his face was pressed to the dwarf’s neck, and Thorin felt him inhale shakily. With Bilbo’s grief so close, and acting as a mirror for his own, Thorin thought of the wizard’s quick laughter, his merry eyes and his insufferable winking, his fierceness in battle, and the relentlessness with which he had protected Bilbo and their companions.
Thorin’s eyes stung. A great soul had passed from Middle-earth, beyond all their ken, and the dwarf shuddered to think of the dark days ahead of them without the wise old wizard by their sides. He felt the wetness of Bilbo’s tears against his skin, as his own eyes brimmed over.
“He deserves a song better than what these Elves are surely making for him,” Thorin rasped.
Bilbo choked on a sob, but Thorin felt him smile at his throat. Bilbo sniffed. “I'll write him one.”
They spent the night in one another’s embrace, and after a time the immediacy and sharpness of their grief passed, and they slept soundly.
When morning came, bright and soft, Thorin woke to find himself curled against Bilbo’s side, with his head resting on the hobbit’s small shoulder. Bilbo was already awake, and was stroking his hair.
“Thank you, Thorin,” Bilbo said, so quietly the dwarf could barely hear him.
Thorin turned his head and kissed Bilbo’s pointed ear. “You have my love, Bilbo Baggins," he whispered, "Whatever may come, you have my love.”