Protect Me From What I Want

Credit goes to Azyungel on AO3

Summary:It’s three months after the Battle of Five Armies. As Bilbo travels from Erebor back to the Shire in the company of two trusted dwarves, one of said dwarves blurts out how Thorin feels about him. Will Bilbo change his mind and turn around?

It’s three months after the Battle of Five Armies. Erebor has been reclaimed. The King under the Mountain and his nephews miraculously survived; they are healed now, and working alongside the Company for their home’s restoration well underway. Their burglar, too: he was welcomed with open arms and encouraged to stay for as long as he’d like.

But Bilbo Baggins, it appears, is not happy in Erebor.

“He is leaving, Thorin. Today.”

This is Balin speaking, in his kind, fatherly voice, he who knows Thorin better than anyone.

“Will you not ask him to stay?”

“I cannot.”

They’ve been over this. There is a reason Bilbo is so eager to leave. He has tried to like Erebor, but the presence of a certain place called ramparts makes it impossible: not that Thorin needs reminding, but that’s where Bilbo almost lost his life. The tricky part is, the ramparts continue to be part of Erebor. So although he forgave Thorin, Bilbo’s associations - with the place, not the person - remain.

“We can alter his surroundings,” suggests Balin. “Start by calling the ramparts by a different name: balcony, terrace, veranda... Have some flower pots brought, make it look cozy and inviting. Only then, his bad associations can change.”

“I suggested this to him. He graciously refused, saying that it’s no use: if he lived in Mirkwood, he’d be traumatized by the spiders episode; in Gollum’s cave, he’d be terrified of Gollum’s memory. He told me not to take it personally, but it’s nothing different with Erebor.”

“I see.” Balin sighs, and gives Thorin a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Well. Bilbo is outside now. In minutes he will be gone. Are you not going to say goodbye?”

“It’s better that I don’t.”

Thorin said it last night, at the farewell feast the dwarves held in honor of their Master Burglar. Today the king has scheduled a full day of court. If he doesn’t spend time on it, Bilbo’s leaving can be managed, perhaps. Days will pass, and Bilbo will go farther and farther from him. It remains to be seen if then the pain can be stopped.

“It’s not too late to tell him how you feel.”

Except Thorin already tried to. He is not sure what Bilbo understood from the gift of mithril, but it’s too late now to explain its deep meaning, that it was a courting gift, admittedly hasty and not at all self-evident in a hobbit’s eyes. But Thorin was in gold madness then, and one look at his treasure of all treasures could easily steal words from his mouth. That must be why he only managed You’re going to need this. Put it on.

It’s definitely too late now.

* * *

Bilbo will not be travelling alone. Bofur and Dwalin are tasked with accompanying him. Dwalin, for best protection against enemies, Bofur, for his lighthearted nature and good cheer. He and Bilbo are close friends, Thorin knows: if nightmares should plague the hobbit’s journey home, there is none better than Bofur for bringing comfort.

It turns out, Bofur brings anything but.

They are descending on the slopes of Dale when he brings it up.

“So. I take it you and Thorin have not worked things out?”

“Not sure what that means. We left each other on good terms,” says Bilbo, though Thorin seemed a bit distant last night.

“Right, right,” Bofur says with a big grin. “But come on, we all know Thorin wanted to be more than “on good terms”.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ah. Forget it. We were just wondering, that is all. If Thorin made his feelings known to you and was rejected, or if... he chickened out.”

“You were wondering,” Dwalin jumps, irritated. “Not me. It’s not my problem.”

“And when we get back and you have to endure His Majesty brooding and pining on a daily basis? Will it be your problem then?”

Dwalin looks like he’s in for years of misery.

“Hold it,” Bilbo interjects. “What on earth are you two talking about?”

The dwarves exchange a meaningful glance.

“Ah. Thorin chickened out, clear as diamond,” concludes Bofur, satisfied. “Or rather, he didn’t have the courage in the first place.”

Dwalin points hastily to the Long Lake, desperate to change the subject. “We need to reach Laketown by sundown,” he says gruffly. A boat lies on the shore, ready to take them to the other side.

* * *

They’re in Laketown, settling in for the night. As soon as the two dwarves get a moment alone, Dwalin starts.

“Have you lost your #$@# mind? Thorin’s going to have you executed!”

“Somebody had to do it. Spill his big secret, because Thorin isn’t dwarf enough to go for what he wants. He may thank me in the end.”

“In your fantasies,” snorts Dwalin.

Bofur is unperturbed. “Well: first of all, Thorin doesn’t need to know. Surely Bilbo won’t tell him we said...”

“We didn’t say anything. You said,” Dwalin corrects him furiously. “I happen to be loyal to my king.”

“Fine, fine. Either way, I’ll make sure Bilbo won’t tell him anything.”

“You will not open this conversation again,” says Dwalin authoritatively, “or I’m going to have to apply extreme measures. Get it?”

Bofur sighs. “All right.”

* * *

Next morning they continue their boat ride. It’s quiet and comfortable for a while, save for a bit of awkwardness. Not to worry: Bilbo is determined to fix that.

“So do either of you care to clarify yesterday’s little remarks?”

“Nothing to clarify. Bofur was having a hangover from the other night. Went too far with the drinking; happens to him a lot. I’m impressed he could travel the next day.”

It is at this point Bofur decides: he’s had it with Dwalin’s patronizing.

“Thorin has feelings for you.”

Bilbo feels like he’s been struck by lightning; which is not far off, by the way. There are menacing clouds gathering in the distance, which Dwalin does his best to match with a deadly stare. “It’s not enough our burglar has to relive the quest in reverse, the better part of which he spent hanging from cliffs, trees, almost eaten by trolls, spiders, Smaug... You have to traumatize the poor lad.”

“What did you say?” Bilbo talks past him, his eyes fixed on Bofur.

“Thorin has feelings. That go beyond friendship. For you.”

Bilbo stares, unable to comprehend.

“Feelings he took pains to hide, because...”

“...it’s no one’s business,” completes Dwalin, kicking Bofur in the behind.

“...because he wronged you terribly, and it’s clear to him you haven’t got over it, and because you miss your home, and...”

Dwalin searches frantically into his pack and produces some rope and tape. “One more word, and I’ll tape your mouth shut.”

“You carry tape?” asks Bilbo in disbelief.

“Usually it’s for orcs.” When that does nothing to stay Bilbo’s confusion, Dwalin adds: “The rare variety I’m occasionally supposed to take hostage.”

“All right.” Bilbo laughs - a little too loudly, too heartily, forcing himself to have a good time. Because what else can this be but fun between friends, after all they all did tell jokes on the road, and dwarves are known for playing a good prank. “Uh-huh. Good one, guys. You almost had me there.”

“No, I mean it,” says Bofur in utter haste. “Bilbo, please don’t tell him - don’t tell anyone I spilled the beans, but Thorin is... he’s been attracted to you since at least the Carrock...”

“And I mean it, too,” says Dwalin, proceeding to tie Bofur’s hands behind his back. And Bilbo is horrified at the sight, yet cannot help wanting to hear more.

“That can’t be. He never paid any attention to me. Not since the battle, at least. And before... he was obsessed with gold.”

“Dude. He’s madly in love with you,” Bofur manages before Dwalin makes good on his threat, rendering him speechless.

“Dwalin. Please. Is it true?”

“I can’t help you, lad. This stuff is between you and the king. I’m here to assist you through Mirkwood. Which is coming up, by the way; so be on your guard.”

Elves stand on both sides of the forest path. They inquire after the visitors’ names and purpose.

“Dwalin, son of Fundin, at your service. This is Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, travelling to his homeland.”

“And who is this horrid creature? A goblin mutant?” the elves point to the hostage look-a-like.

Dwalin is amused, for a change.

* * *

He hasn’t said anything to me. And now I left... so there is no chance to say any more. Bilbo hates, hates this last thought with a vengeance. It’s true, he really needed to escape that place. He never liked Erebor to begin with, when he was sent to face two evils, not one, the dragon barely more frightening than the gold; liked it even less when he saw what being “home” did to Thorin. But getting almost killed was a total dealbreaker in his relationship with Erebor.

Of course, Thorin is healed now, and seems like he truly cares about Bilbo’s well being. But Bilbo still cannot forget the icy chill that surrounded him that day, seeping into his knees, his hands, his core when he tried in vain to resist Thorin’s hands holding him over the wall.

In dreams, he falls, to wake up shivering in cold, which no fireplace can fix but the one at home. The home that as of yesterday, Bilbo couldn’t wait to get back to.

They spend the next night in the Woodland Realm. The Elvenking is pleased the halfling made it safely out of Erebor. If Bilbo was thinking about possibly turning around and going straight to Thorin for immediate clarification, that thought process is halted by Thranduil, who harps on the drama he witnessed when he and Bard revealed the Arkenstone. The hobbit is lucky to have escaped those greedy, murderous dwarves.

In the morning, Bofur and Dwalin bid him farewell. They are to return to the Mountain; another will take over their task. It’s Radagast the Brown; he lives nearby.

* * *

Bilbo wishes he had someone to talk to. Not just about the foolishness of putting “Thorin Oakenshield” and “feelings” in the same sentence; he has to get his feelings in order, too. But in the wizard’s fast-driving sleigh, there is no time to process Dwalin’s actions or Bofur’s words.

At some point the rabbits need to rest; everyone needs to eat. Radagast shows Bilbo a variety of mushrooms and explains their properties. “This stuff... can be really strong, in the right proportions,” he says with a wink. Mister conservative Baggins who never got properly high in his life is, for once, tempted. They make a fire, cook vegetarian food and share with the rabbits - not the mushrooms, mind you; those are to be shared only with Radagast’s guest.

“Something seems to ail you, my boy,” the wizard observes quietly as they nibble at the powerful drug.

“There is... a memory,” Bilbo says, resolved to talk about himself, not what Bofur said; not that any of it is true in the first place. “Something happened to me in the Lonely Mountain, shortly after we got there, that left me confused and... terrified, really. So much that I had to leave that place. But now... I wonder if I may have left too soon.”

“Ah. Dwarves are known for their gruff manner,” says Radagast. “And the mountains they dwell in have a life of their own. Stone retains memories better than any medium. It’s good you left, or your unpleasant incident would haunt you for a long time.”

“That Mountain is unpleasant for sure. But its king...”

Bilbo pauses, unclear how to proceed. Under the tripping influence of mushrooms, he’s so relaxed he could care less who knows, what they know.

“Its king may have been worth staying for.”

He can’t get the proper words out, the absurd that lived in Bilbo’s mind for the last six months, that maybe Thorin and he could have something, if not for the fact that one was, well, king, and the other... really, nobody.

“In my forest,” says Radagast after a long pause, “I am master of trees, flowers, and everything that moves. I have power to heal what is broken. So it is with the Mountain King: there are many wounds he can heal. If you are part of his domain, he may be able to heal yours, too.”

“And what if he is the one who inflicted it?”

“Then I say you are better off far away.”

“And what if he loves me?”

as I love him

Where did that come from?... Bilbo never allowed himself to think in those terms, not where Thorin was concerned. Right. This stuff is really strong, Radagast said. It’s definitely interfering with my judgment.

“Then I guess it’s a matter of figuring out what you want.”

But that’s just the thing: Bilbo doesn’t know what he wants.

The wizard readies for the next segment of their trip, and Bilbo hops in the sleigh with him.

Thorin didn’t have the courage in the first place, Bofur said... This is the part Bilbo cannot believe. Thorin once faced Azog wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield. He met Smaug glare for glare and tried to drown him in a pool of gold. How is it possible he wouldn’t face Bilbo to voice a few feelings? No, surely Bofur was messing with him.

The Misty Mountains are visible in the distance. Not much longer, and Radagast will leave Bilbo’s trip; another wizard will take it from there.

* * *

How good is Gandalf at keeping a secret? Bilbo does not want to know. The question is, rather, how good is Bilbo at keeping a secret from him.

He waits until they’re done crossing the Misty Mountains, then proceeds as neutrally as he can.

“Tell me about Dwarves. I’m interested in their culture and customs.”

“Hmmm. Anything in particular?”

“Well... For instance, I know Bombur and Gloin are married. But I never got around to asking them about their spouses: how they met, courted... that sort of thing.”

Gandalf shoots him a scrutinizing look, waiting.

“Or... or Kíli, for that matter. Last I saw him he seemed interested in an elf maid. I’m curious how he would court her.”

“Well,” begins Gandalf, “dwarves love only once. Once they determine who their soul mate is, there’s no turning back. They set their eyes firmly on that person, and will do whatever it takes to win his or her heart. However, if rejected, they won’t insist; thus remain prisoners to their own love, unable to reach fulfillment, but always longing for it.”

“Oh, my. Bombur and Gloin must be lucky to have had their love returned.”

“Oh, absolutely. As for how they court...”

Bilbo is not really interested in how they court. “And is there anything else besides... rejection that can stop a dwarf from pursuing their soul mate?”

A curious eyebrow lifts on the grey wizard’s forehead. These inquisitive hobbits never cease to amaze him. “I suppose if they feel like they don’t deserve the other, possibly through loss of honor? Don’t quote me on that.”

Bilbo remains in a long, meditative silence.

They lodge in Rivendell for a few days. Save for a few pleasantries with Elrond and his elves, Bilbo stays inside himself. Then he and Gandalf proceed on the last leg of his journey.

Were you so down on yourself, Thorin? Did you view your honor as a hopeless cause, or your deed as unforgivable?

But Bofur didn’t mention loss of honor. Bofur said, Thorin knows you miss your home, he knows he hurt you and you haven’t got over it...

That must be it. Thorin is not in love with him; he is just protective of him. Yet the shadow of doubt remains.

* * *

I don’t like Erebor. I don’t think I will ever like it, Bilbo has said to himself for the last hour, because he sees what is going on: he wants to go back, just to ask a question he’ll soon lose the courage to ask.

“You asked about how dwarves court,” Gandalf tries again as they approach the rolling hills of the Shire. “Well, dwarves court each other using gifts that reflect their wealth and craftsmanship. The more expensive the gift, the stronger the statement it makes. But for courting another race, as in Kíli’s case, they might not go all out with daggers, axes or armor, but find out what their loved one prefers.”

“Armor, did you say?...”

“Oh, yes. That’s a big deal for the dwarrow race: nothing spells love more clearly than the finest armor. And here’s the Shire,” says the wizard as he spots the first hobbit homes in the distance. “My dear Bilbo, I must leave you now.” He shakes the hobbit’s hand, gives him a quick hug and turns away, trying to hide a tear.

“Gandalf...” says Bilbo, letting out a long held, tormented breath. “Those majestic eagles... you know, the ones who carried us to the Carrock that one time...”

The grey wizard stops and turns back to him. “Yes?”

“How likely is it we can find an available one right now?”

...In Bilbo’s dreams, Gandalf doesn’t answer. He sends a loud whistle and behold, a great Eagle promptly materializes, ready to whisk the hobbit back to Erebor. A place which, suddenly, somehow, Bilbo seems to be totally fine with, because he can believe now. A gift, solid and real, he carries it in his pack, the best armor against the bad memories of Erebor. It is possible, then. It is possible the King under the Mountain wants him.

In reality, the grey wizard smiles in amusement and says, “If I see one, I’ll let you know.”

* * *

On Bilbo’s porch are stationed three ravens. One of them holds a small paper in his beak.

Bilbo doesn’t open it right away. Three days later, after he gets his house in order, it’s time to catch up with mail.

Dear Master Baggins,

I trust your journey was pleasant and without peril. Please allow me to share in the joy of returning to your home. I know how much you missed it and I, of all people, can understand what it means to you.

Something seemed amiss with Dwalin and Bofur upon their return from Mirkwood. They would not share what passed, but I could tell it concerned you. If either of them treated you inappropriately, let me know at once. Rest assured their punishment will be severe.

Consider the ravens at your disposal; they will serve you faithfully. If you should need anything in my power to fulfill, including my presence, you have but to dispense a message with one of them.

The Company send their well wishes. They all miss you, as do I.

Yours,

Thorin

And now Bilbo knows the truth about what he wants.

He was hoping Dwalin would tell Thorin what passed. Then it would be on Thorin to act: much more convenient than this situation, where if Bilbo wants resolution he has to make a move. Oh, three days ago, he would have: he wished to go on a new adventure, do it all over again. But now nothing remains but to settle back in his old life, not content, but definitely not Took enough to leave for half a world away on a few conjectures and the words of a prankster dwarf.

Then he hears it: a bird call coming from outside the door. It must be Thorin’s ravens, of course; he hasn’t yet got used to their constant chit-chatting. Except this sound is louder and more commanding. Majestic, Bilbo would say.

He opens the door, and gasps - first at the sight of his mailbox, wobbling like it’s about to break, then at the sight of a great Eagle perched on top.