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Chapter Text

When Bilbo Baggins was a young Hobbit, just into his tweens, he found an acorn lying in his path.

It was a regular acorn in itself, nothing exceptional or remarkable about it, but Bilbo stared at it transfixed for several long moments, before hastily stooping to scoop it up and place it in his pocket. Any other hobbit would have walked past without a second glance, but not Bilbo.

To Bilbo, it was far from an ordinary acorn. Every hobbit found their soul-seed at some point, but no one had ever quite described to him quite how it would feel to hold it. It felt warm in his pocket, and his heart was beating fast from joy and delight.

He had found it, the seed that represented his innermost secret self, the part that, someday, he may offer to someone else to tend and care for in a garden that they planted together, in exchange for their own seed.

He hurried back to Bag-End to show his parents, running past the familiar flowers of their marriage-garden without even glancing at them. His parents made the appropriate noises of approval and smiled at his excitement as he opened his palm to show them what he had found.

But later, when Bilbo was tucked up in bed, with his soul-seed safely under his pillow, his parents retreated out into the garden with their pipes, so that they could talk without risking being overheard.

“An acorn,” Bungo Baggins mumbled round the mouthpiece of his pipe. He had a habit of chewing on it when he was especially worried about something.

“You are such a Baggins,” Belladonna chided, although her tone was fond. “There’s nothing wrong with having an acorn for a soul-seed.”

“It’s not usual, though,” Bungo argued, and to that Belladonna had no response. Most hobbits had the seeds or bulbs of plants that were either pretty or edible as their soul-seeds. Neither of them had ever heard of anyone who had an acorn as theirs, or any other seed that grew something so large. “I can’t help but worry…”

“What people will say about it?” Belladonna finished for him, somewhere between annoyed and amused. She was used to her husband and his respectable ways (even if he had married a Took!) but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t let him know that she thought he was being silly every now and then.

“I don’t care about what people say!” Bungo exclaimed, and that was unusual enough that Belladonna lowered her pipe and gave him her full attention. “I want Bilbo to be happy! I don’t want him to be alone! Who has room for an oak tree in their marriage-garden?”

Belladonna looked at their own lovingly-tended garden, the vibrant yellow roses interspersed with plain bay plants. Many people had predicted that their garden wouldn’t grow, that their soul-seeds were just too different, but it flourished year after year, and the mingled sweet and savoury scent of it always eased her heart.

She reached over and took her husband’s hand. “My darling,” she said softly. “If Bilbo finds someone to give his soul-seed to, they will be very lucky indeed. Their love might be slow to grow, but it will be long lasting and too big for any one garden to contain. Surely that is not a bad thing?”

Bungo squeezed her hand back. “No,” he agreed. “It’s not a bad thing. If he finds someone to give it to.”

Bilbo, of course, had no idea of his parents’ conversation, or of their concerns. Like all hobbits he kept his soul-seed on him at all time, though unlike most hobbits he had no need to carve a special little box to fill with soil or embroider a special handkerchief to keep it safe and protected. It was not small enough to risk losing, nor would it be easily damaged. The surface of his acorn was soon worn smooth and glossy from his fingertips. Even after he came of age, he slept with it under his pillow, and whispered to it his secrets and dreams in the darkness of his bedroom when his parents slept.

And when they died, so soon after one another, it was only his soul-seed that witnessed his tears.

Chapter Text

People who are familiar only with the brash tempers of the dwarves are often taken aback by the inexhaustible depth of their patience.

Few outsiders had ever seen inside a dwarven kingdom, of course. No one who had seen the glory of Khazad-dûm before the dark times came, or the wonders of Erebor at the height of its wealth and power, seen for themselves the work of hundreds of dwarven hands over many generations, would ever have cause to doubt the patience of the dwarves.

Above all things, dwarves are a people of craft, whether that craft is stone or metal work, weaving or warfare, art or medicine. They desire to master it, and spend hours practising and perfecting it for love of the work of their hands and hearts.

This inborn patience comes in useful for many things of course (though in trade-talks or in any dealing with elves it is not usually evident) but nothing so much as for the dwarves born with a One, the other half of their soul born into another body.

Not all dwarves had a One. Not all of them knew of the patience it took to wait for decades or even a century to wait to meet them, but all those who did saw the wait as being worthwhile and put as much devotion into it as they did their craft.

Thorin had a One. He knew it with his whole self, in same way he could look at the raw materials laid out on his forge and see a sword. He had always been aware of it. When he had been a child, it had felt like a friendly voice calling him from very far away, but as it grew he could only describe it as an insistent tug, gentle but firm, letting him know beyond all doubt that there was someone out there waiting for him with the same eager anticipation as he felt.

Though he occasionally wondered, in his few idle moments, what they would be like, he was in no hurry. The feeling of his One was very faint, and he knew that their meeting would not come soon. His One would show themselves when they were ready, and when they did, Thorin would prove to them that their patience would be rewarded.

Then Smaug destroyed everything he had ever known and Thorin stopped feeling the pull of his One, the guiding tether within his soul snapping and coming loose, leaving him reeling and gasping in shock. It hurt. It felt like he was bleeding from the inside and the worst thing about it was that it was just one of many losses he had to bear, and not even the worse.

But sometimes in those vulnerable moments before sleep, after a hard day spent at the forge crafting for men who could not tell the difference between pig iron and mithril if their lives had depended on it, he wondered what could have been. What his One would have been like, and how much better it would feel to come home after the hardships of the day and have them smile at him.

Whenever he thought like that though, or when he woke in the night reaching out for someone who had never been there, he would roughly turn over on his thin pallet and determinedly thrust those thoughts away. There was no use in mourning for something that he had never known. There was far too much that needed his attention and he could not spend his energy dwelling on grief for someone who he would never meet.

Then came the Battle of Azanulbizar, and even more grief. But even as Thorin mourned for his grandfather, father, brother – most of what was left of his family – he spared a thought for Frerin’s One. He thought sometimes of the unknown dwarf who would feel the empty space where patient hope had once been and spend the rest of their life grieving for someone they had never met. Thorin knew what that felt like well enough to emphasise. The absence of his One was a physical ache within him that was sometimes dull and throbbing but bearable and that sometimes flared into a fierce white pain that consumed him from the inside, but was always, always present.

Later, when he was comforting Dis and his sister-sons as they wept for the loss of her One and their father, he thought again of Frerin’s One. Did they weep like Dis did now, or were they numb like Thorin? He didn’t know if knowing his One before losing them would make it better or worse.

“I feel like I’m bleeding,” Dis confessed to him once, and all he could do was pull her close and hope that the boys and himself were enough to dull the pain into something manageable.

He knew all too well how his sister felt. Smaug had killed his One, and he had lived with their absence every day since.

Thorin was utterly convinced of that fact, until he arrived at a round green door after spending an irritating half an hour wondering around Hobbiton, only to find a tiny, curly-haired grocer behind the door, his face creased up with irritation.

Chapter Text

As Bilbo grew older, he started to notice for himself that his soul-seed would grow so much bigger than any other hobbit that he knew of.

He wasn’t vulgar enough to ask his friends what their seeds were but it wasn’t hard to notice. There had been his parents’ garden, of course, and their neighbours Hamfast and Bell Gamgee had a marriage garden filled with neat rows of potatoes and strawberries. Every wedding was followed by a marriage garden blooming with daffodils and daisies, tulips and petunias, all sorts of colourful plants and flowers but nothing larger than a holly bush. Even Lobelia and Otho’s garden looked very fine, filled to bursting with geraniums and buttercups.

Bilbo couldn’t help worrying about it every now and then, as he attended yet another friend or relative’s wedding with his acorn securely in his waistcoat pocket. Who would have room for an oak tree in their marriage garden, blocking all the light and giving their flowers nowhere to grow?

It was after yet another wedding that Bilbo trudged back home to Bag End, his fingers wrapped around his acorn but his heart heavy. It was starting to occur to him that maybe, even though he had put his childish adventures away and had started acting like a respectable Baggins, that he still didn’t fit into the Shire, not really.

He didn’t glance at his parents’ garden has he pushed the green door open. There had been no roses for two years now, and his father’s bay plants looked wilted and terribly unhealthy as they had done ever since Belladonna had died.

Bilbo was very afraid that Bungo was holding on only to see him come of age and get married. One was inevitable, of course, but as for the other, Bilbo was starting to realise it would never happen and he didn’t want to disappoint his father.

There was a very welcome supper of all his favourites waiting for him when he arrived home and Bilbo smiled a little sadly to see it. Bungo had been feeling too frail to attend the wedding that morning, but he must have noticed Bilbo’s habit of coming home from such celebrations despondent.

But Bilbo could only pick at the food, until his Father cleared his throat and Bilbo looked upwards to meet his gentle, sad eyes. “What troubles you, my boy?”

Bilbo toyed with a piece of bread before letting it drop down onto his plate. “No one is going to want an oak tree in their marriage garden, Father.”

“Ah,” Bungo breathed, but he didn’t look surprised and Bilbo realised that was something he had already considered. “Bilbo…”

“No,” Bilbo said, “It’s alright. There’s nothing wrong with being a bachelor, anyway.”

Bungo stood up slowly. “Wait here a moment, son, and eat your supper.”

Bilbo munched slowly as Bungo headed towards his study, but when his father returned with a large sketchbook, he pushed his plate to one side in sudden interest. “I made some plans, after you first showed me your acorn,” Bungo told him, turning the sketchbook so Bilbo could see. “It’ll be possible to extend the garden outwards, so there will be plenty of room for your tree and any other plants, and the roots of your tree won’t cause any damage to Bag End itself.”

Bilbo pulled the book closer and examined his father’s careful drawings. “You did this for me?” he asked, feeling a little choked up. “You don’t think it’s… odd, that I have an acorn as a soul-seed?”

“I think whoever you give it to will be lucky indeed,” Bungo assured him. “And I hope that you will be as happy and comfortable here as your mother and I were.”

“Then I’d be the lucky one,” Bilbo replied and his father smiled wanly, the lines that grief had carved into his cheerful face crinkling briefly.

“But don’t give it just to anyone, Bilbo. Only to someone special, and only if you want to. Remember, there really is nothing wrong with being a bachelor.”

“I know,” Bilbo answered, for the first time feeling comfortable about that thought. “Thank you, Father, thank you so much.”

“As long as you are happy, Bilbo, that’s the most important thing.”

Chapter Text

It was three days into the journey, and Bilbo was still not entirely sure what had possessed him to dash after Thorin’s Company of dwarves without even picking up a handkerchief first.

It might have been waking up to a silent home after a night of noise and cheer and realising that he felt confined by the same thing he had always before been comforted by.

It might have been that song they sang by his fire, a song of fierce longing and determination awaking his long-supressed desire for adventure. Even now, days later, he could still hear it.

It might have been his certainty that, had she still been with him, Belladonna Baggins would have had his bags packed and ready for him to leave before the dwarves had even finished eating.

Regardless, whatever the reason, Bilbo had joined them, and three days in, he could say that adventures weren’t as bad as he had always been informed. It hadn’t yet rained, for one thing. Although the dwarves didn’t stop for as many meals as Bilbo would like he had not been hungry, that was another good thing. He had also almost learned all of the dwarves’ names, an accomplishment he was secretly proud of.

Of all of the Company, he had only really spoken to Fili, Kili and Bofur. The brothers seemed to enjoy teasing him until he was left flustered and stammering, but they didn’t mean it cruelly and after Bilbo became used to it, he found he quite enjoyed it. No one had teased him like that since his cousins and playmates had all become grown-up and respectable, and he had not realised exactly how much he had missed it. Bofur offered him easy, uncomplicated friendship (once he realised that incineration was not exactly a happy topic to discuss) and a helping hand now and then whenever he needed it, which he was more than grateful for.

As for the other dwarves, they treated him with a sort of gruff indifference that gradually lessened over time. When Bilbo got to know them better he suspected that they were trying to be polite, in their own fashion, but even from the very beginning there had always been a dwarf around to hoist him up onto his pony or to reply to his questions or attempts at small talk

However, it was three days into the journey, and Thorin Oakenshield had not spoken to him, not more than a curt “hurry up” or something similar every now and then. It wouldn’t have bothered him - he was sure that dwarven kings had more things on their minds than the hobbit burglar who had been roped into their group - but he often noticed Thorin looking at him intently, like he was a puzzle to be figured out. He’d woken up on the second night, stiff and sore as he was still unused to sleeping on the ground, only to find Thorin staring at him while he was on watch. His gaze was softer than usual, thoughtful yet somehow sad, and Bilbo found himself glad that he had not made any noise when he had awoken. He was sure that if he had, Thorin would have looked away, that already familiar frown back on his face, and if he had spoken it would have been a terse command for Bilbo to go back to sleep.

Instead, Bilbo had drifted back to sleep while Thorin watched, somehow feeling safer and warmer than the previous night and he did not wake once at the unfamiliar night-time noises that had startled him the night before.

It wasn’t only Thorin, though. He would occasionally catch Balin and Dwalin exchanging meaningful glances and he could only wonder why. He hoped that they would come to trust him, eventually.

He wasn’t sure if the incident with the trolls would help or hinder that desire, however. While it was true that he had managed to delay the trolls from cooking them all, it was his fault that the trolls had caught them all in the first place (and it was just as embarrassing that the troll had caught him while reaching for a handkerchief – even trolls used them! He still hadn’t adjusted to not having one in his pocket.)

If Bilbo had been confused by the way Thorin had been looking at him before, it was nothing compared to the way he did when he was finally released from his sack. There was a frantic desperation in his eyes, and something close to anger and Bilbo had no idea whatsoever how to interpret it.

“Don’t worry,” Balin said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “He’ll come around.”

Around to what? Bilbo wanted to ask, but contented himself with a nod instead.

“That was some clever thinking,” Balin continued approvingly, and Bilbo smiled a little as he straightened his clothes as much as he could.

“Thank you,” he replied, but before he could continue he realised with sickening dread, that his soul-seed was not in his jacket pocket. It had been there that morning – although Bilbo had forgotten many useful things his soul-seed was as much a part of himself as the hair on his feet and was never out of his reach – so it must have fallen out of his pocket when the trolls had thrown him. The forest floor was dense with undergrowth and the very welcome dawn light was not yet strong enough to fully illuminate it.

The chance of him finding it again were slim, he knew, and he felt almost more dread at the thought than he had sneaking up on the trolls.

“What have you lost, lad?” Balin asked, correctly interpreting the panicked way he was patting down his clothes but Bilbo couldn’t tell him. Not only was the thought of losing his soul-seed so horrifying that he couldn’t articulate it, but he didn’t know Balin nearly well enough to describe it to him.

There were stories of hobbits who had lost their soul-seeds and none of them ended well. They usually ended with the hobbit just… fading away. The thought of it made him feel sick with panic.

Bilbo frantically examined the ground near where the ponies had been, and as near as he could tell to where he had landed, but it was not there.

Just when he was about to give up in despair, he noticed it by Dwalin’s foot, and managed to scramble and rescue it before the dwarf unknowingly kicked it into the remains of the trolls’ fire. He jammed it back into his pocket with a trembling hand and only then noticed that all the dwarves were staring at him, bewildered at his sudden dive across the trolls’ campsite, though Gandalf looked understanding.

“If you are finished here,” Thorin said, his voice rougher and more impatient that usual, “then perhaps we can examine the cave.”

Bilbo flinched a little but nodded, and Balin patted him on the shoulder again. “Like I said, he’ll come around.”

----

By the time they got to Rivendell, Bilbo was almost too shaken to appreciate the beautiful, peaceful surroundings. His new sword – or letter-opener as the dwarves had all taken to calling it – did not seem adequate enough to defend him from the wargs and orcs that had chased them. He couldn’t help but feel that he was far too small for this adventure.

He did take the opportunity to wander around a little. He didn’t think he’d be missed, with all the commotion that his dwarven companions were causing. The quiet surroundings did more to settle his nerves than even dinner had done.

He had always wanted to see Rivendell. His mother had told him so many stories about it; she had always hoped to see it for herself, someday. He wished that he could have told her about this, about his entire journey.

A polite little cough from behind him broke him out of his thoughts before they became too gloomy and he turned around to find Lord Elrond standing behind him.

"My lord,” he began, flustered. “I hope that you don’t mind…”

“Not at all,” Elrond broke in smoothly, coming to join him as stood by the railings that looked over the grounds. “I hope you enjoy your time here.”

“Oh, I am,” Bilbo assured him earnestly. “I have always wanted to see the Last Homely House.”

“I hope it lives up to your expectations,” Elrond replied with a smile and Bilbo nodded, ducking his head as Lord Elrond looked down at him. Really looked at him, the way that Gandalf sometimes did, the way that seemed to see more than just a little hobbit from the Shire.

“I hope you know that you are welcome to stay here,” Elrond said, his voice gentle and knowing. “Now or any time.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo said, truly touched. “Perhaps I’ll stay for longer on the way home.”

Elrond smiled a little. “Rivendell will be pleased to have you,” Elrond said warmly, “any time you have need.”

Elrond reached down to squeeze his shoulder, and they both turned at the heavy scuffing tread of a dwarven boot.

Thorin stood behind them, frowning more than usual. “The moon is rising,” he observed bluntly.

“Ah yes,” Elrond said, “It is almost time to read the moon-runes. If you’ll follow me, please.”

He dropped his hand from Bilbo’s shoulder and led the way up the stairs, meeting Gandalf part way up.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin said, less gruffly than usual. “Will you join us?”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Bilbo stammered, wondering what it was about Thorin that made him feel like an awkward tween all over again, before trotting after him, not entirely why Thorin was being more friendly but glad of the change.

----

It didn’t last, of course. Thorin’s dismissal of him once he had rescued him from the side of the mountain cut deeply. He admired Thorin, his strength and his determination, and the way his Company would do anything for him.

Bilbo had not realised quite how much he wanted Thorin to think well of him, how much he wanted his approval.

His attempt to leave didn’t go well, though, and he was glad of that later, once he had re-joined his Companions with his new magic ring snugly in his pocket alongside his soul-seed.

It didn’t matter about Thorin’s harsh words and suspicions, not when his life was in danger. Bilbo didn’t even pause to think, to consider how inadequate he was with his little sword or how outnumbered he was against all those orcs. He half climbed, half fell out of the tree and raced towards Thorin as fast as his legs could carry him.

He didn’t care about the danger. Thorin had to live. That’s all there was to it. That’s why he ran and why he stood between Thorin and the terrible pale orc that threatened his life.

When Thorin hugged him, afterwards, his eyes blazing with a fierce emotion that Bilbo couldn’t name, he knew that it was all worth it. Bilbo’s heart didn’t slow down for a long time afterwards, even though the danger had passed.

----

Later, as they rested in Beorn’s house, and Bilbo struggled to tease the comb that Bifur had lent him through his snarled curls, Thorin approached him, looking hesitant, scuffing his heavy boots against the grass.

Bilbo didn’t notice at first, far too caught up in trying to detangle his hair, but when he looked up he noticed Thorin watching him.

“Thorin,” he asked when he hadn’t done anything for a few minutes aside from watch the movement of his hands. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Of all the responses he’d expected, it wasn’t for Thorin to flush slightly. “No… I was… I just… were you hurt, earlier?”

“No, I’m quite well,” Bilbo assured him.

“Good,” Thorin replied. “That’s good.”

But he didn’t move away and after a moment Bilbo, in order to break the sudden silence and because he didn’t want Thorin to leave, asked, “Thorin? Would you tell me about Erebor? I still know so little about it.”

Thorin looked surprised, though pleased as well, and somewhat stiffly sat next to Bilbo and started speaking of his home.

As Bilbo listened to him speak of deep mines and the sound of hammers and carvings so high that no one could see the top of them, his face animated from memories of happier times, it occurred to him that there was probably a lot of space around Erebor – more than enough space for an oak tree to grow nearby.

The thought shocked him. It had been so long since he had considered giving his soul-seed away. He was glad that Thorin was not looking at him while he spoke for he sported a blush of his own.

The thought of it never entirely left his mind, no matter how hard he squashed it down. Just because Thorin was no longer dismissive of him did not mean that he would be happy to be offered his soul-seed, after all.

(It wasn’t until Bilbo managed to steal the keys and he opened the door to Thorin’s cell to see him looking back at him with open awe and hope that Bilbo thought that, just maybe, he wouldn’t turn his soul-seed away.)

Chapter Text

They hadn’t been in the Blue Mountains longer than two weeks before Dis entered into their little shared home with a broad smile on her usually solemn face.

Thorin couldn’t help smiling back at her. A happy Dis was an irresistible force of cheer. “You look like you’ve lost a silver bead only to find a mithril one.”

“Thorin,” Dis announced, wonder in her voice. “I’ve found my One.”

Thorin didn’t quite manage to hide his flinch, but Dis didn’t notice the way she normally would. Thorin had never spoken of his One to his siblings, not the fact that he’d had one in the first place, or that he’d lost them before ever finding them. At first, it had been a pleasant, precious secret, and then a grief he did not want to burden them with.

Though he was happy for his sister - of course he was - he couldn’t help feeling that useless pang of loss.

“Are you sure?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Of course!” she exclaimed. “I know with all my heart. It’s like… finding a lump of hewn rock and knowing for sure that there is a gem beyond price within it. Like walking blindfolded through an unfamiliar mine and still finding my way safely back to our quarters.”

“Good,” Thorin said. “Good.” Then he smiled his almost-unused Big Brother smile. “You know I have to approve of him before I’ll let you marry, don’t you?”

“Thorin!” Dis protested and he laughed. Of course he would approve of his sister’s One. Of course he would be supportive of anything that made her smile so brightly.

Try as he might, though, Thorin couldn’t sleep that night wondering how it would have felt to have met his own.

(Later, he would say it felt like stepping through that round hobbit door and finding himself unexpectedly back home in Erebor).

Chapter Text

It had taken Thorin some time to believe that Bilbo was his One. Until the moment he’d set eyes on him, he was utterly, completely convinced that his One had died in Erebor decades before.

But just one glance at the little hobbit in front of him set his heart pounding and made his skin feel like it had been set alight. He felt something settle into place within him, like a key unexpectedly turning within a rusty lock, a complete and utter surety that his One was standing in front of him.

Thorin was completely blindsided to find his One was apparently their all too proper would-be-burglar, who didn’t look like he had ever stolen anything more than an extra cake between meals.

He was not exactly subtle in his doubts about taking the hobbit with them, either. He was worse than useless; he was so woefully inexperienced and naive that he was dangerous.

Surely this timid little creature could not be his One?

(And, on the off-chance Thorin had been wrong for all these years, and his One really was standing in front of him looking bewildered and offended at the comments of his unexpected guests, Thorin didn’t want him anywhere near the dragon).

It hadn’t taken Balin or Dwalin long to realise that there was more to Thorin’s objections than the fact that the hobbit had fainted (Mahal help them) at the mere mention of the dragon.

“He is my One,” Thorin whispered, though the rest of his Company was currently sleeping off overly full bellies and the hobbit had retired hours before, leaving them to their own devices.

Balin nodded sagely and Dwalin frowned. “Thought your One was dead?” he asked bluntly. Dwalin had prised that secret out of him years before after too much ale and too much heartache left to fester.

“He did,” Thorin answered. “I was sure of it. But now…”

“Maybe it was not your One who died,” Balin suggested gently. “Maybe it was just your hope of ever finding him.”

“Or I am wrong now,” Thorin suggested, not sure which idea was worse: that he’d spent so much time needlessly mourning or that he would have to start again after letting a delusion get the better of him.

Of all the things he’d pictured his One to be, a soft, useless hobbit had never even been one of them. It was like a cruel mockery of everything he had never let himself dream of. But then, no one had ever guaranteed that any dwarf would actually like their One when they found them.

Balin gave him a look of disapproval. “What did it feel like, when you first saw him?”

It had felt like knowing that with every stroke of his hammer against the metal on his forge that he was crafting a masterpiece. Like finding the Arkenstone in a pile of discarded rubbish. Like coming home at long last.

He didn’t answer and Balin didn’t press. Dawlin shrugged practically. “He’s not coming. Figure him out after you’ve figured out how to deal with the dragon.”

But the next morning the hobbit came dashing over the hills to catch up with them, still vulnerable, still a distraction, but with a look in his eyes that made Thorin realise that maybe it was hope he had been missing all these years.

But it wasn’t until Thorin saw Bilbo in the grasp of a troll that he knew without a doubt that the hobbit was his One. The sudden fear was almost paralysing. He didn’t hesitate to put down his sword when they threatened his life. There was not a dwarf alive who could stand to see their One harmed, and who would not risk their life to keep them safe.

Thorin was not entirely pleased by this development, even as his soul sang in relief when Bilbo was shoved, mostly unharmed, into a sack like the rest of them. Of all the times for him to have such a weakness, this quest was the worst one of all.

It was a little bit galling that it was in a large part to the hobbit that they escaped the trolls, but Thorin, as Balin suggested with a wink, took it as an encouraging sign. Perhaps Bilbo was more than he first seemed. Perhaps he could not bear to see Thorin harmed, either.

It didn’t change the fact that the hobbit was a distraction, though. He was naïve, timid and defenceless, and despite himself Thorin felt his eyes lingering on his soft curls and gentle smile and the way his wrists peeked out from the sleeves of his thoroughly impractical jacket until he caught himself and turned away with a scowl.

His One or not, the hobbit had no business being on this journey with his Company.

----

The hobbit – Bilbo – continued proving his expectations wrong, time after time, not turning back when he could have at Rivendell or after the Goblin Caves, then saving his life and his Company, until it was all Thorin could do to stop himself from declaring himself to Bilbo, and perhaps frightening him off.

He’d been carefully working out the best approach when Bilbo kissed him.

After they had reached the banks of the river just before Lake-town, Bilbo had to help him from his barrel, as the confined space, the cold and the physical exertion of battle had conspired to numb his limbs with cramp. Bilbo, looking even more bedraggled than the rest of them had pressed a brief, relieved kiss to his lips before drawing away in horror.

Thorin had not been displeased, far from it in fact (when Bilbo had turned up outside their cells as if from nowhere, with a cheeky grin on his face and the keys in his hand, he’d been hard-pressed to stop himself from pushing the Hobbit against the nearest wall, in front of all his Company and any Elven guards that happened to wander by and devouring him) but he had only been able to silence Bilbo’s babbling apologies by wrapping his hand around the back of his neck and pulling him close for another kiss.

They hadn’t been able to spend much time together after their fleeting, stolen moment, not with trying to sneak into the city, acquiring weapons and winning the Master’s support taking up all their time, even so, Thorin had tried to show Bilbo his regard the best he could without access to forge, gold or gems by seating him at his right hand and making sure he was the first served at mealtimes after him. When they had reclaimed Erebor things would change, of course, but for now he would make do.

So when Bilbo pulled him aside for a “private word” he had gone eagerly enough, despite all the other things he should probably be doing (checking on Kili’s health, consulting with Balin and avoiding the Master and all his toasts and feasting were on the top of that list).

He’d been expecting more kisses. If he were honest, he had been hoping for more than that.

Instead he found himself looking at the acorn in the middle of Bilbo’s (slightly trembling) palm in bewilderment. He didn’t know what to make of the little nut in Bilbo’s hand, or why Bilbo was offering it to him.

“It’s not a nut, well, not one you can eat, anyway,” Bilbo corrected, then cleared his throat somewhat self-consciously. “It’s my soul-seed, actually.”

“I see,” Thorin replied, not seeing at all. “What is that, exactly?”

Some of the anxiousness on Bilbo’s face melted away. “It should have occurred to me that dwarves might not have them. After all, none of you are gardeners!”

Thorin smiled a little. “No, that we are not.”

Bilbo shifted a little, before taking a deep breath and saying, “My soul-seed is a… symbol, I suppose, of, well, of me. Of everything I am, of my innermost self and deepest dreams. All hobbits find a seed that represents us before we come of age, and then, when we find someone we want to spend the rest of our lives with, we exchange soul-seeds. It twines our whole lives together so we can share everything between us, in good times and in bad. Then on our wedding day we would plant them in a special flower bed that we would tend together. It ties us to our partner with bonds as strong as the ones between roots and earth, or flowers and sunlight.”

Bilbo’s voice had a sort of rhythmic cadence to it that let Thorin know that this was the lore of his people, probably learned as a child. Even if it was that hobbits did not value their secrets as much as dwarves did, he still felt honoured that Bilbo would share them with him.

Bilbo trailed off then, and glanced down at the acorn in his hand, before looking back up into Thorin’s eyes. “Do you understand now?”

Thorin didn’t, exactly; it all sounded incredibly strange to him, but one part of Bilbo’s rambling was a clear as crystal. “You wish to spend the rest of your life with me?”

He didn’t mean to sound so incredulous, but Bilbo flushed a deep red. “Well, if you don’t mind, that is. It’s just… the rest of our lives might not be very long, what with the dragon waiting for us, and I knew that I’d regret it if I didn’t offer…”

Thorin cut him off with a kiss (it seemed to be becoming a pattern, not that he minded at all). He kissed Bilbo with several weeks’ worth of pent up passion and supressed longing, with years and decades of missing him, with all the single-mindedness he directed towards reclaiming their home, now that he realised that it would not be home for him without the presence of a certain little halfling. He kissed him fiercely and hungrily enough that when he finally pulled away Bilbo swayed a little and had to hang onto Thorin’s forearms for a moment to recover himself.

“There is something you should know about dwarves, Bilbo.” The dazed look faded a little from Bilbo’s face as he listened, and Thorin resolved to be quick so that he could put that expression back on his features. It was easy, suddenly, to share his own peoples’ secrets after Bilbo had trusted him with his own. “We may not have soul-seeds, but... you are my One.” Bilbo looked a little confused until Thorin continued, “You are my true and perfect match. The missing part of me. I have waited my whole life for you, and now that I have found you… I would gladly spend the rest of my life, however long or short, with you.”

“You knew I was your One?” Bilbo asked uncertainly. “But you didn’t like me much when we first met.”

“I thought you died when the dragon came.” Bilbo’s face softened. “I’d mourned you for longer than you have been alive. It was a shock meeting you.” Thorin shifted awkwardly. “And it is probably fair to say that you were not what I was expecting.”

“Fair enough,” Bilbo laughed, and stood on his toes to kiss him again, gentle and brief, and when he drew back there were tears glimmering in his eyes. Where once Thorin would have seen them as a sign of weakness, he could only feel grateful that Bilbo had offered his gentle heart to him.

“Will you take it, then?” Bilbo asked, and held out the acorn again. “I offer you everything that I am.”

It had the sound of ritual to it, a vow more binding than the contract Bilbo had sighed, and it set Thorin alight. “The first thing we will do, when Erebor is ours again,” Thorin promised, “is find somewhere to plant it.”

Bilbo smiled, sudden and bright. “I suppose there will be plenty of room outside of a mountain for it!”

“Of course.” Thorin agreed, and took the acorn from Bilbo’s palm. Bilbo gasped as he took it, and trembled as Thorin stroked it with his thumb, as if he could feel it. As if Thorin was already touching him.

“I didn’t know it would be like this,” Bilbo said, staring at the little seed in Thorin’s broad hand, quivering from head to foot.

“You’ve never offered it to anyone else, then,” Thorin realised, feeling relieved at the thought, not even bothering to clamp down on the sudden wave of possessiveness that surged through him.

“No one else aside from my parents has ever even seen it,” Bilbo agreed, before he pounced and Thorin let himself be pushed backwards towards the bed.

Chapter Text

When Bilbo arrived back at Bag End after a long day tramping through the woods searching for elves, it was to find his mother kneeling beside her marriage garden, carefully weeding it and tending to the plants.

Belladonna straightened up and sent him a smile, her eyes raking over the tear in his shirt, the mud stains on the knees of his trousers and the fact that his jacket was being used as a makeshift sack to hold some pilfered pears. Where another hobbit may have scolded, Belladonna only smiled. “And what adventures have you been up to today, Bilbo?” she asked.

“I didn’t find any elves,” Bilbo told her sadly, “but I did find a marvellous pear tree! I bought some home for us all.”

“Well, how about we make a crumble tomorrow,” she suggested, and Bilbo nodded enthusiastically as he watched her tease out a dandelion plant from under one of her roses.

Usually Bungo would help her, but he had been a little bit poorly. Both of his parents had told him not to worry, but the last few nights Bungo had gone to bed without tea or supper, which was not a good sign for any hobbit.

That’s why Bilbo had brought home the pears. They were his father’s favourite.

Belladonna pulled the last weed from the flower bed, tenderly touching the leaves of one his father’s bay plants, which was looking a little brown and wilted around the edges, before she stood, gathering her tools.

“Mama,” Bilbo asked, his mind still dwelling on that gentle touch even as his mother picked up her trowel and dusted down her skirt, the fingers of his free hand curling around his acorn, sung in his pocket as always. “How did you know that you wanted to give your soul-seed to Da?”

Belladonna looked a little surprised at the question, but she smiled softly, her eyes far away. “He always waited for me,” she said. “After my own adventures, he was always there, wanting to hear all about them, no matter who disapproved. And soon enough, it didn’t feel like I had come home until I had spoken to him and I knew that I wanted to plant my garden and make my home with him.”

Bilbo couldn’t imagine showing his soul-seed to anyone, let alone letting them touch it or plant it. His mother must have seen some of that on his face because she smiled and gave him a hug.

“I know the thought of giving your soul-seed away is daunting. But I promise that you’ll know when you have found someone you want to give it to, my little Bilbo,” she assured him. “You’ll recognise the person who you would tie to yourself with bonds as strong and nourishing as deep roots in the earth, the person that you would give your whole self to.” Her eyes flickered back to the drooping bay plants, and Bilbo could see the determination in her face. “Even your own breath, if need be.”

Chapter Text

Although Thorin’s body was racked with pain, his mind was clear for the first time in days.

He had failed so badly at his first test of kingship. His mind had been overwhelmed by the gold-longing, which had had driven him as selfishly crazy as his grandfather. He’d endangered the Company who had risked everything for him, turned his back on the men who’d helped him (though even free of the gold-sickness he had no regret about the elves), he had almost let Dain’s soldiers be swarmed by orcs and goblins and his hobbit…

His hobbit, his One, his Bilbo, who had only been trying to save him, and win peace for them all. He’d banished him, cursed him, and almost thrown him over Erebor’s battlements.

He had thrown Bilbo’s soul-seed over the battlements, where it had probably been trampled by orcs and heavy booted feet, lost forever in the churned up blood and dirt. Bilbo had made a noise like Thorin had stabbed him in the heart before he scrambled away. It haunted him, played over and over again in Thorin’s mind until he almost wished Azog had just killed him outright.

But he couldn’t die, not until he knew Bilbo was safe.

No one had found Bilbo, though it had been hours after the battle. No one had said anything to him, but he had been listening to the urgent whispers of his Company even through the pain of Oin trying to stem the bleeding, an attempt that he did not give up on, although they all knew it was futile, until Thorin weakly begged him to go back to his nephews and do what he could for them. He knew he had little time left, but Thorin could die content knowing that Bilbo would live. Bilbo could spend the rest of his life hating him, as long as he was alive to do so.

Balin had promised him that his nephews were recovering well. The rest of his Company would survive, though some of them would carry scars.

He just needed to know that Bilbo lived.

Thorin stifled a pained scream, his fingers aching for the feel of Bilbo’s acorn against his skin. He had kept it on him constantly since Bilbo had given it to him, something that made Bilbo squirm and blush whenever he noticed. Even in Erebor, before his mind had been entirely lost to the gold he had planned to dip it in gold and embed it with jewels until Bilbo had laughingly reminded him that he needed to plant it. Thorin had scowled at him in reply, offended that Bilbo would refuse the honour of having a king craft something for him.

That had been the last time they had spoken until Thorin had dangled him over the rocks so far below.

“… may I see him?” Bilbo’s voice cut through the pain in his body and the agony in his mind and Thorin’s slowing heart picked up and thudded painfully.

“He may not be conscious,” Balin said gently. “He may not be able to respond to you.”

Thorin opened his mouth to call for Bilbo, but all that came out was a tiny groan. The darkness was swallowing him from behind his closed eyelids and he knew that he didn’t have long but he needed to see his One for the last time, to see for himself that he was unharmed.

“I gave Thorin something important and he threw it away,” Bilbo said, his voice urgent. “And I don’t blame him because I took something special of his first. But there is still a bond between us… I can help him, Balin. Please.”

Balin’s reply was lost to the maelstrom of pain within Thorin’s broken body, but the next thing he was aware of was a gentle hand tentatively touching his wrist and Balin asking “…will it hurt him? Is it safe?”

“Thorin is in no danger,” Bilbo replied softly, and Thorin tried to force his eyes open and his voice to work. He recognised the resolve in Bilbo’s voice, and the fact that he was talking around the truth in order to do something he saw as being in Thorin’s best interest. He shifted his hand, trying to communicate his concerns to Balin.

Normally Balin would see through an evasion like that, but they had just been through a terrible battle and he was already starting to grieve for his king, and his thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

“Thorin?” Bilbo asked, his voice choked. “Thorin, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?”

Thorin hadn’t even realised that he had closed them, but he could not resist the quiet plea in Bilbo’s voice. Opening his eyes felt like the most difficult thing he had ever done, but the sight of his One, even with a blood-stained bandage around his head and his pale face streaked with tears was more than a reward enough.

“There you are,” Bilbo murmured croakily. His smile was the best and saddest thing Thorin had ever seen.

“Bilbo,” he managed, his voice too-soft and broken. “Forgive me.”

It was not enough, Thorin knew, to make up for what he had done, but he did not think that he had the strength for any more words.

Bilbo laughed a little, tears spilling down his face. “Only if you forgive me.”

Thorin could barely breathe, but he smiled the best he could. Despite his best effort, his eyes were closing again, and he knew it would be for the last time. It took the last of his strength but he managed to breathe out, “I love you.”

“Don’t you dare, Thorin Oakenshield!” Bilbo said, his urgent voice coming from far away. “It’s going to be alright. I promised that I would help you get back your home, do you remember? Now I promise you that you will live to see it rebuilt. Just hold on.”

Thorin floated in darkness for what seemed like endless time. The first thing he became aware of was that the cold that had crept into his limbs was receding, taking pain and blackness with it. His breath came freely. He could feel Bilbo’s hand in his.

He opened his eyes with a gasp. He felt… not entirely recovered, but as if he’d had weeks to heal from his injuries, rather than them being the fatal wounds that he should have already succumbed to.

Bilbo was sat at his bedside, his smaller hand loosely clasped around Thorin’s fingers, his head slumped against the edge of the pallet.

“Bilbo?” Thorin murmured wonderingly. “What did you do?”

He touched Bilbo’s curls, matted with sweat and blood, but there was no response. He shook his shoulder, gently at first, then more urgently, but Bilbo didn’t lift his head or answer.

Thorin shrugged off the blankets and stood on legs that ached a little but held him steadily, and pulled Bilbo so that he was lying flat on his back on the blankets.

His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow. He was pale, as if he had lost a lot of blood but the only wound that Thorin could see was the one on his temple, and it had not bled more since Bilbo had entered the tent and taken his hand.

He looked as near death as Thorin must have done not that long ago, but there was no reason for it, and fearful anger swept through him like a wave of nausea.

“No,” Thorin snarled to Bilbo’s unmoving form. “Whatever you have done, Bilbo, undo it. Wake up!”

Bilbo didn’t stir and Thorin felt more wretched than he had when he had been dying not long before. His One was dying instead of him and he didn’t know why.

“Balin!” Thorin bellowed. “Balin!”

The tent flap was swept aside at once and Balin entered, his eyes wide and disbelieving in his battle-grimy face. “Thorin! But you were…. How? I don’t understand,” he said, coming forward to grasp his arms tightly.

“I think Bilbo did something,” Thorin explained, and he could hear the tremble in his own voice.

Balin followed his gaze and gasped to see Bilbo so pale and lifeless on the blankets.

“What did he say to you, Balin?” Thorin asked desperately, and Balin shook his head, bewildered.

“He said that he would be able to help you because of the ties between you. I didn’t know what he meant. I have never heard anything like this, not even from bonded Ones.”

“He gave me his soul-seed. All of him, he said,” Thorin mumbled to himself, staring at Bilbo in horrified wonder.

“What do you mean, Thorin?” Balin asked.

“I think we need the wizard,” Thorin replied instead.

“Aye, I think so,” Balin agreed, hurrying out of the tent.

Thorin sat down and clutched at Bilbo’s hand, all too aware that not that long before they had been in the opposite positions and the thought filled him a numbing horror. His One should not have to pay for all the mistakes that Thorin had made. “Bilbo,” he whispered, but the hobbit did not stir or give any sign at all that he had heard.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before the tent flat snapped open. Gandalf took one look at Bilbo before turning to Thorin with the most ferocious scowl on his face.

“Did Bilbo give you something?” he demanded sharply. “It would have seemed inconsequential to you, but…”

“He gave me an acorn,” Thorin replied roughly. “And it wasn’t inconsequential! He told me what it means!”

“Where is it now, then?” Gandalf demanded, and Thorin had no answer.

“An acorn?” Balin asked. “What does that mean?”

“Hobbits are not like dwarves,” Gandalf began, touching his hand to Bilbo’s forehead. “They are not born with Ones. At some point in their tween years they will find a seed that calls to them. They call it a soul-seed. Bilbo’s was an acorn, you say?”

Thorin nodded, grief and anger at his own actions stopping his voice.

“You have more Took in you than I thought, my friend,” Gandalf said to the unconscious hobbit, before turning his keen glance back to Balin. “Hobbits have a deep connection to the living world. The land they plant their soul-seeds in nourishes and strengthens them, and they share that with the person they choose to give their seed to. They have essentially given of their whole self. It is not just an invitation to share a life, but an offer to share everything. Including their own health and wellbeing.”

“So Bilbo gave up his own vitality to save Thorin?” Balin breathed, and Thorin could not hold back a little moan, pressing his forehead against Bilbo’s hand.

“Why would he do that?” Thorin asked, tears pricking at his eyes.

“You know the answer to that, my lad,” Balin answered gently.

Thorin felt a hand on his shoulder, and when he looked up his saw that Gandalf was smiling at him with more kindness than he felt he deserved. “Do not doubt the strength of the bonds of root and earth, Thorin.”

“What do you mean?” Thorin asked, not daring to hope. “Will he live?”

“It is hard to say,” Gandalf replied gravely. “Bilbo will not die from healing you, but he may take some time to wake, and he will need to be watched carefully afterwards to make sure he doesn’t become ill. Hobbits are not often touched by tragedy and this is a gift seldom given, though Bilbo’s mother gave of herself to save his father. No doubt that is where Bilbo got the idea from.”

“What happened to her afterwards?” Balin said, voicing the question Thorin could not bring himself to ask.

“She died some months later,” Gandalf informed them heavily. “But do not give up hope! I have seen oak roots crack stone before now.”

“And what does that mean?” Thorin demanded, not slightly in the mood for wizardly riddles.

“It means, Thorin Oakenshield: get up and have something to eat. Visit your nephews. Rule the kingdom and manage the alliances Bilbo won for you. And have patience! Bilbo will wake when he is ready.”

Thorin did not want to see sense in Gandalf’s words but he could not argue. As much as he wanted to stay with Bilbo until he awoke, there was still much to do after the battle. He leant forward and pressed his forehead to Bilbo’s, before he drew back and kissed it softly. “I will not leave you long,” he promised. “Balin? Would you get Oin? Make sure he has clean bedding and the best care, and send someone to fetch me, if anything changes.”

“Of course,” Balin agreed, and when Thorin stood, he hugged him tightly enough that his mostly healed wounds throbbed a little, but he understood the sentiment, and let Balin release him in his own time.

Thorin ached, still, despite Bilbo’s gift to him. His legs felt shaky and the mostly-healed wounds on his back and sides felt tight and pulled uncomfortably as he walked, but after everything, he really could not complain.

---

Thorin had to admit, it was somewhat touching to see the reactions when he strode out his tent. His Company was thrilled, of course, and even the usually serious Dain managed a broad grin. The flabbergasted look on Thranduil’s face was particularly satisfying.

He stored up the memories to tell Bilbo when he awoke. Gandalf had told him to be patient.

He had waited decades for Bilbo, even if he had not known he was doing so. He could wait a little longer.

(He refused to think about what he would do if Bilbo did not wake.)

When he reached his nephews’ tent he found them both sleeping, a normal, healing sleep. Bofur was in the tent too, sat on a box, nodding off while leaning on his hand.

And the red-haired she-elf who had helped capture them in Mirkwood was in there as well, stroking his nephew’s hair.

When Kili woke up they were going to have words.

“What is going on here?” he demanded.

Bofur woke with a start, and the elf took a step back, but did not leave or back down.

“Thorin! I mean, your majesty! I thought… they told us…”

“I am well, Bofur,” he replied to his shocked stammering.

“Did Bilbo find you?” Bofur asked, smiling. “He’ll be so happy!”

At the mention of Bilbo Thorin felt his anger fade away. “I suppose I have you to thank for my nephews’ healing?” he demanded tiredly of the elf.

“Aye,” Bofur interjected hurriedly. “Tauriel here healed Kili from his wound in Lake-town… we knew that she could do it again, and she did, for both of them.”

Tauriel bowed her head respectfully but did not speak. Thorin nodded at Bofur. “Keep an eye on them,” he ordered, trusting that Bofur would understand that he really meant keep an eye on her.

Bofur nodded, but he looked troubled. “Did you find Bilbo?”

Thorin nodded grimly. “He is… not well. I’ll explain later. For now I have to find Bard.”

Bofur’s brow crinkled in concern, but he stayed where he was as Thorin went to the first and not the least frustrating meetings between the leaders of the various armies.

Thorin had no patience for the meetings and cared little for the division of the treasure. Even when Bard returned the Arkenstone he simply wrapped it up in his torn and ruined coat and stowed it out of sight in the tent he shared with Bilbo. He could not bear to look at it. Instead he kept his mind on his recovering nephews and his unconscious hobbit. They kept him focused and his mind clear during the negotiations.

(Though when Kili recovered enough for Thorin to have those words with him, his nephew uttered the dreaded phrase “she is my One.” Thorin had to leave the tent and rant to the unhearing Bilbo until he felt better. It was easy enough to imagine Bilbo’s calming responses, anyway, though they left him more lonely than before.)

----

The weeks drifted on, the rebuilding of Erebor was well underway and still Bilbo slept.

He looked better than he had, he was not so pale and his breathing was easier, but still he did not wake. Thorin had not given up hope, but he found that his hope was growing weaker each day that went past.

“Please,” he found himself whispering to Bilbo whenever they were alone. “Please don’t leave me. I can’t lose you, not again, not in truth this time.”

In the hope that finding Bilbo’s soul-seed would help him wake, he offered a reward for anyone who found an acorn on the battlefield.

That pronouncement mostly led to the oak trees in Mirkwood being stripped of whatever acorns had not yet fallen. Thorin gave a coin to anyone who brought one to him; he had enough to spare, after all, but he was not fooled. He would know Bilbo’s acorn anywhere.

One grey day, as the first snow began to fall, Tauriel came to find him. They had managed to move all of the dwarves and the injured who were still not ready to travel inside the mountain. Although the accommodation was rough and mostly communal, it was better than being outside as the winter set in.

He and the still-sleeping Bilbo had their own room however, and the she-elf was the last person he expected to see when he answered the loud rapping at the door.

“What do you want?” he asked, trying not to be as brusque as he felt. While it was true that no dwarf would deny another his One, that did not always mean it was easy for them to be accepted.

“I found something you need to see,” she informed him, and while her delivery was cool, there was a hint of excitement to her that did remind him a little of Kili.

He followed her outside of the mountain, though not without strapping on Orcrist first. He had demanded its return in one of the negotiations, mostly because he knew that Bilbo had felt badly that he had not been able to retrieve their weapons for them. He’d told Bilbo not to worry, that he had it back, but again, he had not stirred. Still, having the blade that had come from the same place as Bilbo’s tiny sword made him feel a little more connected to his burglar while he slept.

He followed the she-elf as led the way under the battlements. If he looked up, Thorin would be able to see where he had once threatened Bilbo.

He did not look up.

The elf thrust out a hand, stopping him in mid-step. “It’s here,” she said.

“What is?” he grumbled.

She knelt down next to a green shoot. “Kili told me that you were looking for an acorn. This is the shoot of an oak tree. It has grown quickly and out of season. I thought that…”

She trailed off as Thorin reached out a shaking hand and touched the stem. It had grown from Bilbo’s soul-seed, he knew it with his whole self, with utter bone deep certainty and it filled him with hope, the way he had not felt since the moment Bilbo had called him back to the keyhole in the moonlight, weeks ago, now.

He cleared his throat. “What must I do to care for it?” he asked roughly. He knew little of plants and while he would have preferred to ask Bilbo himself that was still not currently an option.

Tauriel looked a little surprised that he had asked, but rallied quickly. “It is still small and liable to be stepped on, so it might be worth fencing off for now. It will need compost and something to protect it from the cold as well.”

“Thank you,” Thorin said, and the genuine gratitude he felt must have been clear despite the gruffness of his voice, as Tauriel relaxed in his presence for the first time. “I offered a reward for whoever found the seed,” Thorin remembered aloud.

“I do not need anything,” Tauriel protested and while Thorin would have once seen that as haughtiness he now just saw someone trying to help the family of someone she loved.

“I should give you some beads.” Thorin decided, and at her quizzical look added, “Dwarves give each other hair beads on their wedding day.”

He had never seen an elf blush that shade of crimson before, which made a good day even better.

After that, he spent time outside with Bilbo’s little oak tree every day. He shovelled on the foul-smelling stuff that he had been assured was good for it, and he covered it over with a cloth to try and protect it from the cold.

It had grown every time he saw it though, which just made him more hopeful of the day that Bilbo came back to him.

He had developed the habit of talking to Bilbo, despite the fact that he had never responded. It helped keep him calm and centred, and made him feel less lonely. He had also developed the habit of trying to imagine what Bilbo would say, if he were awake and listening.

So when, after complaining at length about one of the generals that Dain had left for him before he returned to his own lands, a little voice asked “then what did he do?” he didn’t respond at first but continued with his monologue.

When it did register, he whipped around so fast that he hurt his neck, only to find Bilbo, awake and blinking and trying to push himself into a sitting position.

He hurried over to help, his hands lingering and caressing as much as lifting. “How are you… are you…”

He couldn’t think of the questions. Bilbo was awake, looking at him with those eyes he had missed and that special private smile he had not had time to memorise the shape of. He was thinner than before and there were still shadows under his eyes, but he was alive and awake and it was everything Thorin had not entirely dared to picture.

“I’m well,” Bilbo assured him gently. “Just a little thirsty.”

He pulled away reluctantly to pour Bilbo some water, only to find that Bilbo had not let go of his arm. “Are you alright, Thorin?” Bilbo asked, his voice shaking with remembrance. “There was so much blood…”

“I’m fine,” he promised. “Completely recovered, you foolish, beloved little burglar.”

Bilbo grinned, suddenly and cheekily, and Thorin kissed him, more gently than he really wanted but mindful of how fragile Bilbo felt under his hands.

Bilbo nuzzled him as he pulled away, and squeezed his arm, as much for his own reassurance as Thorin’s. “You can get me that drink now,” he pronounced, and Thorin’s relieved (and not at all hysterical, not matter what Bilbo later claimed) laughter echoed throughout their chamber.

Chapter Text

Bilbo had been awake for three days before he and Thorin had their first argument.

It had started off as a tender enough moment. Thorin had barely left his side since he had woken up, though he didn’t blame Thorin at all for being a little clingy. He could not believe he had slept for six weeks! He had not moved out of arm’s reach, aside from when he had carried Bilbo over to use the chamber pot, and then only because Bilbo quite firmly insisted.

Thorin had filled him in on everything he had missed, made sure he’d had plenty to eat, and cuddled up with him when he felt sleepy again.

When Bilbo dozed off again, a normal refreshing sleep that time, he woke to find Thorin staring at him, gently stroking his hair as he slept. He drew back a little when he realised that Bilbo was awake and looked at him imploringly.

“Bilbo… I have to ask… please promise me that you will never do that again. I am grateful – more than grateful – but I beg you, please do not risk your life like that again for mine.”

“That depends,” Bilbo replied, “on whether you keep on with your habit of charging headlong into the enemy without thinking!”

Needless to say, the argument only got snappier from there and ended with Thorin going out to get some air (“in a mountain?” Bilbo called after him) and Bilbo was left to stew because his legs were not yet strong enough to storm out.

Thorin had not even been gone for half an hour, not long enough for Kili to teach him any of the bad words in Khuzdul, before Thorin returned and shooed his nephew out.

“Gandalf told me that your mother died because she helped your father,” Thorin began, worry all over his face.

“My mother became ill afterwards,” Bilbo explained, “and did not have the strength to recover, and my father did not have enough to lend her after his own illness. I am quite well now, or will be soon enough.”

Thorin swallowed hard, and dropped down heavily onto the bed next to Bilbo. “Did it hurt you? Were you in pain while you were sleeping?”

“No,” Bilbo replied, taking Thorin’s hand and squeezing it tightly. “It didn’t hurt at all… I closed my eyes and it felt like sinking into the earth. Everything was dark but it was also warm and comforting. I could feel you getting stronger as I slept.”

“Could you?” Thorin whispered, his eyes very bright.

Bilbo kissed the palm of the hand he was holding. “Of course I could. The roots between us are strong and deep, and they are hopelessly tangled together. There is no separating us now.”

Thorin was quiet for a long time. “I thought…” he trailed off, his face dark with remembered fears.

“I was scared too, seeing you so wounded,” Bilbo whispered, and Thorin came over and kissed him.

“I know,” Thorin said softly. “I’ll try not to risk my life in the near future if you promise to do the same.”

“Deal,” Bilbo promised with a smile, and Thorin kissed him again, more deeply and leaving Bilbo hoping that he would feel strong enough for some more strenuous activity soon.

----

As soon as Bilbo could walk some distance without getting tired, he took Bilbo out to see the sapling growing from his soul-seed.

“You’ve been tending it well,” Bilbo said, delightedly. “It wouldn’t have grown so fast otherwise.”

Thorin smiled, mostly pleased, a little sheepish. “Tauriel told me what I needed to do,” he admitted.

“Tauriel? Didn’t she go back to Mirkwood?” Bilbo asked, confused.

“She’s Kili’s One,” Thorin said, not sounding nearly as furious as Bilbo would have expected.

“You didn’t tell me about that!” Bilbo grumbled. “Nor did Kili!”

“No, he was too busy teaching you to insult me,” Thorin replied, and then kissed Bilbo’s put-upon pout until he shivered and Thorin insisted on taking him back inside (though he wasn’t shivering from cold, not at all).

Bilbo only got stronger and his sapling taller as the winter progressed, and on the first day of spring he and Thorin stood, hands clasped in front of what felt like most of Erebor as they recited their wedding vows, or dwarven wedding vows, at least. By hobbit standards they had been married since his soul-seed started growing, but as that knowledge seemed to distress as much as it comforted Thorin, Bilbo was more than happy for them to have a proper ceremony.

After it was done, and Gandalf had placed the little golden circlet that Thorin had forged himself on his head, Thorin led him out to where his sapling was growing.

“Here,” Thorin said, offering his a parcel wrapped in furs. “I have often regretted that I do not have a seed to give to you.” He hushed Bilbo’s protest. “So I give you the heart of the mountain. It is no longer my heart,” he smiled then, that rare (though not as rare as it once was) and brilliant smile that never failed to make Bilbo smile in return. “But I thought you might like to have it.”

Bilbo crouched and carefully, mindful of his white and silver wedding clothes, dug a hole at the base of his sapling and buried the Arkenstone next to his soul-seed. “There,” he said, smiling in satisfaction. “Now they are together.”

“Indeed,” Thorin agreed and kissed him so thoroughly that Bilbo’s knees went wobbly. Thorin had been incredibly gentle with him since he had awoken from his long sleep, but it looked like something had resolved itself within him, once the Arkenstone had been buried. “I never thought I would have this day, my One.”

Bilbo stood on his toes and kissed him again. “Let’s go back inside, Thorin,” he urged.

“Home,” Thorin agreed, sounding content.