His King ninjamcgarrett

Summary:While staying at Rivendell, Bilbo awakens one night and goes in search of food. He stumbles across Thorin, awake from a dream and watching a waterfall. Somehow, Bilbo knows what to say to the troubled king and how to soothe the hurt that Thorin carries with him.

It was a paradise, as far as Bilbo was concerned. The few days he’d spent there had been quiet and full of rest – something that all of the dwarves had needed as well. Bilbo knew that even though Thorin would never admit it – bugger his feud with the elves – he was grateful for the sanctuary they had been afforded in Rivendell. Honestly, Bilbo thought, he would never understand Thorin.

Although, he thought that learning to understand Thorin was like learning another language. When he had first met him, Bilbo found the dwarf warrior utterly confusing. As time had gone on, however, Bilbo had begun to learn little glimpses of Thorin and lately, he had begun to string these snatches of understanding together to decode the larger picture of Thorin Oakenshield. Maybe someday he would be able to completely translate Thorin, but Bilbo doubted it. For now, he could somewhat decipher the dwarf and his dark glances and brooding manner.

Muttering to himself about Thorin’s wild good looks be damned, Bilbo left his room in search of food. He had woken with a strange niggling in the back of his head and thinking that his stomach was demanding a late night snack, Bilbo wandered down the moonlit hallways. His feet softly padded over the smooth stones while trying to remember where the kitchen was located.

Bilbo knew that when this adventure was all over that he would return to Rivendell and spend a long while here, soaking in the eternal peace and delving through the books in the Elves’ library. More than once in the last few days, he had stopped while exploring the Last Homely House and simply stared in awe at the views or at the paintings tucked away in this Elven paradise. As he meandered now, Bilbo caught sight of a figure standing at a small ledge overlooking one of the many waterfalls. Bilbo almost left the man to his thoughts until he saw the agitated set of his shoulders.

Daring to creep forward, he realized that it was Thorin, awake and watching the water cascade over the rocks and down into a nearby stream.

“Thorin?” Bilbo asked softly, afraid to startle him.

The dwarf partially turned, glancing down as Bilbo drew level with him. He simply raised one eyebrow at the sight of Bilbo – another of his infuriating traits that Bilbo had begun to translate.

“Yes, Halfling?” came the rumbling reply.

Bilbo stopped, really looking at him now. Even in the shadows and moonlight, Bilbo could see the unmistakable bruises of haunted sleep under Thorin’s regal blue eyes. Here was a man who looked beyond weary while trying to carry his burden alone. Bilbo’s stomach gave a sympathetic twist.

“What was the dream about?” he asked, mentally cursing himself for blurting out such a question.

One corner of Thorin’s mouth quirked up into an attempt of a smile. “You surprise, me, Master Baggins. More observant than I gave you credit for.”

Bilbo, without thinking, reached up one small hand toward the circles under Thorin’s eyes. He found Thorin’s skin cool and soft there, a surprise.

“What was the dream about?” Bilbo asked again, more softly this time.

Thorin sighed, not pulling away from the hobbit’s touch, but not leaning into it; instead letting Bilbo’s fingers skim the sensitive skin around his eyes.

“Was it that obvious?” he asked finally and Bilbo smiled in response.

Thorin was quiet for a moment, appearing to mull over his dream. “Gandalf has told you of what passed at Erebor.” When Bilbo nodded, Thorin continued. “It returns to me in my dreams every so often. I cannot escape the fate of my people, Halfling. It haunts me and drives me as nothing else does. All I wish is to see my kingdom restored, my people at home under our rightful mountain. Yet my dreams show me a fate worse than death; our people imprisoned and tortured, slaves of the Pale Orc. And I – ” he sighed, admitting the deepest part of his dream, “and I am helpless to stop it, to protect them.”

The breath that escaped from Thorin’s lungs rattled its way out of his chest. His eyes had closed as he had confessed to Bilbo the misery of his dreams. One of his hands gripped the stone railing hard enough that his knuckles turned white. Bilbo hadn’t moved his hand though, fingers still gently resting over the shadows on Thorin’s face, feeling the pulse there.

Bilbo realized that this was another moment of learning Thorin. He had always known that the dwarf was driven, but now he saw just how tightly his drive held the whip behind him. Some men dreamed of the horror of death, others of losing everything, yet here was a man whose biggest demon was failing his people. Here was a king to be envied by all others. Here, Bilbo realized, was a king whom he would gladly follow into the heart of Erebor to reclaim a kingdom that was not his, but belonged to the dwarves.

“Thorin,” he said, waiting until the dwarf had opened his eyes and was looking at him. “You are a fine king, one worthy of all the realms from the Gray Havens to the edge of the wild past the Lonely Mountain. Do not be so hard on yourself. You have cared for your people for sixty years. I have no doubt that you will reclaim Erebor and bring your people home. I know you will do right by them and by the line of Durin.”

Bilbo brushed his thumb over one of the dark shadows and smiled. “You have twelve dwarves loyal to your cause – and you have one hobbit who will follow you until the end, until you do not require my help anymore.”

Thorin started at Bilbo’s words, as if surprised that Bilbo had included himself. Seeing his look and knowing what it meant, Bilbo smiled.

“Oh yes, Thorin Oakenshield, had I been born a dwarf, I would have been honored to call you my king. As a hobbit, I am honored to be in your service – even if that does entail wanting to whack you on the head with Orcrist now and again.”

Thorin laughed then, looking caught by surprise by Bilbo’s last words. Warmth spread through Bilbo’s small body as Thorin gripped his shoulder once before tangling his hand in the hobbit’s short hair.

“When Gandalf told me that we required a burglar, I did not realize that the burglar would also provide me council. Be careful putting yourself in my service like that, Bilbo Baggins. I may just keep you around after we reclaim Erebor.”

Bilbo reddened, hoping the cover of night would hide it from Thorin. Blast the dwarf’s good looks, he thought again.

“Come, Halfling” Thorin said, a small yawn escaping as he turned and guided Bilbo back toward their rooms. “I have a feeling peaceful sleep awaits me now.”

His hand gave a grateful squeeze to Bilbo’s shoulder, a gesture that Bilbo well knew by now. Maybe learning Thorin was becoming easier. A smile tugged at his lips as he realized that Thorin’s use of the term “Halfling” when talking with Bilbo had become more a term of endearment than a way to distance them from one another. Just like learning another language, he thought.