Chapter 8: Through shadow, to the edge of night

The water comes to a boil with a wheezing whistle, startling Thorin out of his thoughts. He lifts the kettle of the stove a bit clumsily, his hands just slightly too big for the handle. Steam fogs up the window as Thorin pours the water, and he waits for panic to set in. It doesn't come. Not panic, not regret. Thorin's heart has calmed down, no longer echoing in his ears, his mouth. Instead, there's a lightness, or a light emptiness in Thorin's chest. It's the strangest of feelings, calm, cool, clean. Like a messy thread finally starting to unravel, or a long stretch of monochrome sky wiped clean of colour just before snow or rain. Thorin feels somehow removed from himself, looking in on himself from outside, examining the perimeter of this feeling that smells like fresh air and winter months and clean slates. It's far from ideal and it's as idyllic as barren landscape, but it's a start. Or maybe it's a development, because it doesn't feel like a start at all. It feels like a resting place after a long journey, temporary but much less harrowing than a start. Much more complex, too. An interlude. Doesn't really matter, he supposes, what it is, as long as it doesn't feel like an ending.

And it easily could have been. All too easily. Like Bilbo said, love is not enough. Like Thorin said – he knows. He does. Despite Dis' teasing about his (lack of) savvy when it comes to the matters of the heart, Thorin's walked too many miles lately not to learn a thing or two. If the road taught him anything, it taught him about the volatility of things, about the mistake everybody makes thinking that true love means eternal love. They are wrong. They don't understand that love can be as true as anything and still not last. Its transience does not make it a lie. So, Thorin knows that there was a potential ending lurking in every corner of the conversation, shaped as a possibility of Bilbo saying "here is a truth: I loved you, once, truly. Here is another: love passes, like all things do. True love is a perishable good. But when I loved you, that was true", and it never sounding wrong or false.

So, an interlude feels like a blessing, bleak and feeble, but a blessing nonetheless. Thorin will take it.

He takes the tea out into the den, the cup looking ridiculously delicate in his hands. He is about to say something when he notices Bilbo's head lolling, his mouth slack with sleep. Thorin sets the cup on the near-by footstool and fetches a second quilt off one of the armchairs. It's still too warm to stoke the fire, but the sun is slowly fading and the room will grow chilly in no time. Draping the quilt over Bilbo's lap, Thorin almost reaches out to tuck away an errant curl but stays his hand last-minute. There are still invisible border running between them, walls not to be breached. Doors that only open on invitation. The thought of touching Bilbo with his eyes closed feels like stealing.

That is not to say that reaching out doesn't feel as natural as breathing, and that drawing back doesn't make Thorin's arm feel as heavy as it was after his first-ever sword fight. Sometimes he misses the simplicity of battles fought with weapons. It would seem that wielding a blade is a run in the meadow compared to keeping hands idle and the heart content with scraps of what could be, one day.

But as it is, Thorin keeps his hands to himself and chooses to be happy that there is a "could be" to be thought about at all. After all, it's so much more than what he'd had only day before. These days, Thorin knows how to count his riches.

The knock comes barely moments after Dwalin closes the door.

"Enter", Dis calls out, even if she'd rather not.

"Is this a good time, Majesty?"

The dwarrowdam that enters the room is tall, broad-shouldered, with a riot of dark brown hair and a beard so thick any braids in it are hard to see. Dis would know, she used to practice making them when she was younger. In fact, there is little about Thira that she doesn't know – or, well, at least there used to be – from the different ways she wields her sword with her left hand than with her right to the way different types of ink look on her skin, which always reminded Dis of tiger's eye stones.

"As good as any, Captain", she replies, not missing the twist of Thira's mouth that means she's trying not to roll her eyes. If Dis were a lesser dwarrowdam, she would smirk. In fact, she's not entirely sure she isn't. "Is there a problem?"

"Since when do you call me 'Captain' in private?" Thira asks as she moves deeper into the room. All formality is gone from her voice and her posture, and she seems torn between trying to test the waters and simply being annoyed.

"Since when do you call me 'Majesty' in private?" Dis counters, looking back to the letter-in-progress in front of her.

"Since you've had a crown put on your head and I'd become bound by the laws of our people to address you as my rightful queen. And since you've been doing your best to make it clear that my standing with you is not what it used to be by denying me an audience. And sending Dwalin to do it, too. I've just assumed that a proper address would be appropriate. "

Mahal, Dis almost forgot how sharp that tongue could be when the occasion called. Or when its owner was slighted. In this case, it was a bit of both, and none of it unjustified. Still, justice does little to take the edge off Thira's words, especially when she knows precisely where to aim them. It would be cruel, if it weren't fair. Any other day, Dis would give as good as she gets, but not today.

"Well, it's unnecessary", is all she says. "And it has been a busy couple of days." Weeks is more like it, but this is no time for a pity-party.

"That it has, aye." Thira leaves it at that, still standing as still as in the old days of her early guard duty, when she was a mere foot soldier.

A few silent moments pass by, the only sound bouncing around the chamber being the scratching of Dis' quill. But the letter is drawing to an end, no matter how Dis wishes for another mile of blank parchment to save her from a conversation she is not all that keen on having. She finds herself signing her name at the bottom of the page all too soon, and then there's little else to be used to keep up the pretence of busyness. She sighs, sealing the letter and turning in the chair to face Thira.

"There was something you wished to discuss."

"I hear there's a new Captain of Guard in the city."

Thira feigns nonchalance, glancing at her nails. Even so, Dis catches the half-impish, half-spiteful flash of her eyes.

"If you are fearing for your position, rest assured it is safe. I doubt the Dwarves of Erebor would be very keen to answer to an Elf."

Thira snorts. "Hardly. I was merely wondering what merit you thought there was in harbouring an Elf."

Dis' face hardens, eyes narrowing.

"Since when do you judge the kind and kin of those who come to us for help?"

"I don't. You know I don't."

"Then what? Why does it matter?"

"It matters because you are no longer the makeshift leader of a tatty, exiled people!" Thira cuts in, forceful and loud, losing whatever composure she held on until that moment. "You no longer have the luxury of thoughtless mercy. There is no move you can make now that won't have implications, consequences. You've started your rule by leaving quite an echo behind you, but I'm starting to wonder if that was only because you still haven't found your true voice."

If anyone else had spoken to the Queen in such an insubordinate, downright disrespectful way, they would be facing a night in the cells. Thira, however, is one of the few exceptions to that rule, and the only one who ever pushes her favour like this, apart from maybe Dwalin. Dis knows this, and so does Thira. That's the way it's always been, even before they were what they are now, one a Queen and the other an experienced warrior and commander, before there were power plays and differences of station separating them. In this moment, they are who they've always been, only Dis doesn't feel quite up to matching Thira for all she's giving just now.

"Have there been voices?", she asks calmly. Thira's breaths are still coming fast, but when she speaks again her voice is more levelled.

"Not yet. Everyone's still too grateful to be alive, too busy rebuilding, and too tired the rest of the time to say anything. But there will be, soon."

"The Elves have been instrumental in our victory. The people will remember that."

"Do you really think that will erase centuries of animosity?"

"Of course not. But it will help."

"And what when the people start asking why we are housing and feeding an Elf when our own supplies are still barely enough?"

"One Elf hardly makes a difference!"

"I know that", Thira says, walking closer. "And you know that. But when things get rough, people will turn on the outsider first."

"You show very little faith in your kin."

"I simply show an understanding of my kin."

"Do you think I should have turned her away then? We do not send away those in need. Not while I am Queen."

"Do not insult me by pretending to know me so little", Thira snaps. "I would not care if you take in a warg pup or a troll spawn if they came knocking, and you are well aware of that. All I ask is that you consider what the consequences of your charity might be."

By now Thira has moved right next to the desk at which Dis is sitting, one hand on the edge as she towers over it. Dis raises her chin and meets Thira's eyes.

"And what makes you think that I haven't considered them already? That I haven't been considering them all along, since the moment I took my oath?" she asks, suddenly a queen once again. But Thira doesn't cower or shrink back.

"Because I am not quite certain of your reasons for taking in the Elf", she says, as sure as stone.

"Do you think I would ever do anything to endanger my people?"

"Never wilfully."

"Do you question your Queens judgement?" Dis pushes out of the chair, voice growing chilly. Thira keeps on meeting her gaze, eyes never wavering. There's no tremble in her voice as she replies.

"I question your heart."

The words hit Dis like a dull blade.

"I do not rule with my heart."

"You've always ruled with your heart. It's what makes you a great Queen."

"Then what is it that you question, Captain?"

Thira doesn't flinch, nor does Dis expect her to, but her face twists a bit, and Dis knows there won't be any holding back now, if there was any before.

"Why is she here, Dis?"

"Her king exiled her."

"No. Why is she here?"

Dis knows what Thira is asking. She knows the answer she is supposed to give. But she can't. Maybe it's pride and maybe it's self-preservation, but she can't. And yet, she must. Because it's Thira, and she already knows the answer, but Dis must say it.

"You know why."

"And is that why you've invited her to stay?"

Dis looks away. She knows where this is going. "She deserves a chance to move on. To try and heal."

"She must be very special", Thira says, cold and callous. "To be granted a clemency you won't even give yourself."

"It's not the same."

"It's exactly the same!" Thira shouts, reaching the end of her tether. "You cannot heal the hearts of others and hope you won't notice your own rotting away while you do it, Dis. It's duplicitous at best, and cowardly at worst."

'They are dead', Dis wants to scream, because once again Thira finds the rawest part of her and grips until it hurts. 'They are dead and it is not the same', she wants to say, but she doesn't. In another life she would have given as good as she got, but not now.

"Tauriel is a guest of Erebor, and my personal one. I believe you will ensure her safety just as you would of anyone else." Dis' voice is flat and impassive. "If there is any trouble, please let me know. Now, if you don't mind, I have business that awaits."

Thira stays tense for another moment, like she is preparing to continue to fight, but then her shoulder drop and her face slackens into disappointment.

"Of course, Your Majesty", she says, and Dis has never felt less like a Queen.

And Thira leaves for the door, Dis sits back down. She reaches for a new parchment and starts writing when Thira's words reach her.

"You may think me cruel, and maybe rightly so. I am sorry if I am, but I made a promise to myself, the day you married Vili, that I would never let the day come when you would be heartbroken. Looking back now, it was a selfish promise, made more to save my own heart then yours. Seeing as I've broken that promise, I have to try and keep the one I've made much earlier, before I've even had much of a mind to make promises at all. And that was that I would not live to see you die. I intend to make sure I never break that one. Even if it means being cruel. I cannot let you die Dis, and I cannot let you let your heart die away either. I'm scared there isn't much of a difference there."

By the time Thira finishes speaking and the door closes with a soft thud, the words of the letter are spilling over, the ink smudged by tears.

When Bilbo wakes, it's dark outside and it seems Thorin's got the fire going. There's sleep still sticking to Bilbo's eyes, cotton in between his thoughts, a drought dusting his tongue as the air grows too warm. With no sign of Thorin anywhere near, Bilbo is sorely tempted to simply go back to sleep, but he knows there'll be a crick in his neck come morning if he stays in the armchair, and after today's unexpected expeditions and other events, he really needs a wash.

"Thorin?", he calls out. The memories of earlier that day swim back up, and Bilbo groans under the weight of them. What a mess they are. But even so, seeking out Thorin feels like the right thing to do, no matter what. Bilbo tries not to dwell on that particular thought for too long, lest it drags him under and makes him surrender. It's not the right time for that. Not yet.

When no reply comes, Bilbo makes his way out of the chair. His back aches and his shirt is crumpled, so he stretches and sets out to find Thorin before he draws a bath for himself. Padding through the corridors to find nothing but empty rooms, Bilbo tries the kitchen, but to no avail. He's about to look outside when the stairs to the cellars catch his eye. He anticipates the pull in his chest a few moments before it comes. It's the sort of premonition that comes easily to those with awkward luck in life, like a part of them is always expecting the wrong turn, the all-too-easy slip-up.

The murky darkness is inviting, warm like the inside of a dragon's mouth, and just as dangerous. There is no whisper in Bilbo's ear this time, but even so, he can feel the Ring calling, silent but vicious. It's the simple knowledge of it being so close and yet out of reach by mere agreement that is so jarring. If Thorin had taken it somewhere, hidden it away, then maybe Bilbo's urge to go looking for it wouldn't have been like this, this itch beneath his skin, this feeling of everything being upside-down, topsy-turvy and wrong. With the Ring, things weren't exactly good, but without it, everything seems worse. Even the confused, ragged-edged disbelief and the cautious joy of Thorin's return feel like broken stones under Bilbo's feet now, starker and yet less clear-cut.

"Bilbo?"

Thorin's voice breaks into Bilbo's reverie, and he turns to find Thorin standing in the doorway, wiping his hands with a soil-stained cloth. Thorin eyes him with poorly-hidden tension, and it is only then that Bilbo realises he is halfway down the cellar stairs.

"Where have you been?", Bilbo asks before Thorin can comment.

"The fire needed more wood. I went out to chop some", Thorin answers, obviously choosing to ignore the sharp, unnecessary edge that's crept into Bilbo's voice, and oh, Bilbo could just throttle him. It's hard enough that Thorin is just standing there, looking for all the world like a worried mother hen, while Bilbo is still half-way into their combined doom and by his own doing no less, and he just wishes…he wishes Thorin would snap, or scoff at him – anything at all to level the playing field. Because this steep metaphorical slope that they're standing on is maddening. Bilbo is trying is darnest, but it's of little worth to anyone when all he wants to do is slip away into the cool half-darkness of the cellars where the whispers can drown out the yearning. He hates it, hates the weakness of it, the ease with which betrayal offers itself as an option. And there's Thorin, calm as pond water, chopping Bilbo's firewood, talking to him in a soft voice, and looking at Bilbo like that.

It's all wrong. Horribly, painfully wrong.

They're broken, Bilbo realises, a twist in his gut confirming it. There's something about them that's broken, like an unbalanced scales, and they're constantly on the verge of tipping over. There used to be a rhythm to this – to them. Bilbo's temper made easier to bear by his honesty, however blunt it may have been at times, and his loyalty, and Thorin with his somewhat cracked-veneer ideals, and his hot head and harsh tongue, his stubborn sense of duty. They used to be whole, each of them, in a cracked, slightly worn way, definitely imperfect but not just shadows either. Now, it feels as if they are just cut-outs with faces, paper dolls stuck with a single face, a single state of mind and heart. Their rhythm is a broken song. It's almost worse than silence.

All the tentative hope of the past day seems so far away now, as ludicrous as a wish made upon a shiny penny found on the road. For a desperate moment, Bilbo feels like giving up. The cellar door is so close, and all it would take to send Thorin on his way is a few harsh words.

'Chopping wood. Not a very kingly task', Bilbo wants to say, as mean as anything, downright cruel. Well, no, he doesn't. But he knows he should. It would sting, but the sting would be real, in the midst of all this wrongness. It would be nasty, and real, and true to what they are now. And maybe Thorin would finally lash out. Or maybe he would leave. Bilbo can't tell with certainty anymore, and that's more frightening than anything. Either way, Thorin would be better off, angry or gone, just not here, looking at Bilbo and making him feel for all the world like a villain in his own story without even meaning to. Because Bilbo can't do this. He said he would try, and try he did, but he can't. He can't, he…

"Bilbo!"

Bilbo's eyes snap up. Thorin is standing much closer than just moments ago, and Bilbo doesn't remember him moving. He also doesn't remember when his hands started shaking or when his breathing sped up, but as it is, he is breaking out in a cold sweat, the world spinning inside his head.

One of Thorin's hands is hovering over Bilbo's shoulder, and for a moment all Bilbo wants is to lean into it, let Thorin hold him. He knows Thorin is waiting for permission, or a request, but for some reason Bilbo's voice isn't really of great use to him at the moment. Before, their touches came casually, exhilarating but also easy, in a way. And then, later, they came in a rush – of fear, of loyalty, of relief. Bilbo never had to ask. And now, he doesn't know how. Not now, the way he is. It would be a trick.

So, Bilbo doesn't ask.

"I was just going to check the supplies", he lies. It comes worryingly easily. "I couldn't sleep any longer, so I thought I might as well do something useful."

"You should get some more rest."

"Didn't you say we were in a hurry to leave?"

"Aye", Thorin says, still eying Bilbo suspiciously. "The sooner we leave the better we will be able to press our advantage."

"Well, then, we best get packing. We might just be ready to leave at first light." Bilbo rubs his hands down his trousers, drying them of sweat, suddenly all business-like. He hopes Thorin won't notice the undercurrent of panic lacing his words, won't read the desperation that lingers there read to chock Bilbo and make him go back on his word.

The sooner they leave, the better. Thorin said so himself. For once, Bilbo doesn't feel the need to bicker or contradict him. It doesn't matter that there's more to Bilbo's reasons than outrunning orcs.

Thorin looks like he wants to push or call Bilbo out on what is blatantly an attempt to distract attention. A part of Bilbo wishes he would. How much easier it would be that way. But even before Thorin's shoulders sag and he nods with a sigh, Bilbo knows he got away with it. Because he knows Thorin and all the history and shadows of memory that bind him. The guilt, the hauntings of spirits. Dark, sad understanding that Bilbo wished Thorin never had to find. Bilbo knows all that holds Thorin hostage against himself. All those things are the reason why Thorin is now so changed. All those things, and love, too. And that one, Bilbo thinks, might just be the worst one. Out of everything, it's painful to know that Thorin loves him enough for Bilbo to be able to get away with lies. Not when lies were that which almost destroyed them for good. Love is a horrible thing to be a hostage to.

"Lead the way then, Master Hobbit", Thorin says with a rueful smile before Bilbo can beat himself up some more, ceding the battle.

Bilbo swallows, willing away the pang in his chest, and moves back up, away from the cellar doors.

"We'll need food for the journey, something that will keep. I guess we should travel light, but a few spare sets of clothes wouldn't go amiss. And blankets. Lots of blankets", he begins. Thorin listens, looks, moves around Bilbo and with him, occupying the space that's been rotting away empty and cold for so long, and Bilbo lets his hands work, packing and wrapping, and breathes. He just needs to make it through the night.

If this were a story in one of Dis' books, Thorin supposes that this would be the part that comes after the ending. He'd always wondered what happened in that blank stretch that stayed behind the neat, tidy endings of epic tales. If he were to believe the books, that was when the happiness and prosperity happened, or alternatively, ruin and despair befell everyone and everything. Dis being Dis always had a morbid love for the tragic ones, but then again, that might have been just because Dwarves did love their tragic epics. A cheerful bunch, Dwarven poets and historians were. But the fact remains that stories were always so simple. Victory or defeat, glorious life or tragic death. There was never anything about messy, anguished afters that came once the heroics were over and done with.

So, if this were a story, then now is when he and Bilbo are supposed to be happy, or if not that, then at least victorious in some way. Which only confirms that stories know as much about reality as elves know of, well, anything. In other words, absolutely nothing, if you ask Thorin.

Because there's nothing very victorious in watching Bilbo putter about Bag End, more precisely the kitchen, an hour and a half into their journey preparations, partly listless and partly filled with some nervous energy that Thorin is afraid to try and pin point for all its frightening familiarity.

"I think we should take as much food as we can carry and that won't go off quickly", he says. Bilbo frowns.

"We can always top up our supplies in Bree before we reach the stretch of open road."

"The less we are seen the better."

"Do you think Orcs wills stop in the Prancing Pony to ask if anyone's seen a hobbit and a dwarf?" Bilbo snorts and it almost feels like the old days. Thorin smiles.

"No. But they could always rampage the place and get answers."

Bilbo's face falls. "Of course." He looks at the sacks and bags already stuffed full by his feet. "I guess I will just have to leave out my second-best waistcoat then. And the writing set."

He looks so crestfallen over the writing set that Thorin loathes the next piece of news he has to deliver.

"I also think we shouldn't use ponies", he says, leaning against the sink. "We will need to cover our tracks, and that's easier done if we're on foot. Besides, ponies need food, and they'll make it much more difficult to travel on the less-known paths. The Misty Mountains alone would be a nightmare on horseback. It will take us longer, but I think we will be safer that way. We should be through the worst of it by the time winter truly comes, and if we have luck, we should be in Erebor before the worst frosts."

"Alright", Bilbo says, although he doesn't look thrilled by the idea of crossing so much land as winter closes in on them. "If you think it best. Definitely more blankets then. And more hard cheese."

Bilbo adds another pack of cheese to one of the open bags on the kitchen table before tying it shut and adding it to the small pile of the already packed ones. He's still in the clothes that he fell asleep in, a soft shirt and simple trousers, and Thorin can't help but notice how domestic it all looks. Soft and uncomplicated, even if it is anything but, and so very much like something just within reach. Like something Thorin could have, one day. Something they could have, together.

"There should be some more spare blankets in one of the guestrooms. Try the chests, would you?"

Bilbo looks up as he speaks, wiping at his forehead, and catches Thorin's eyes. Thorin swears he can hear the hitch in Bilbo's breath and watches the battle that rises in his eyes, softness against sharp edges, a warmth against the same shadows Thorin's noticed are a normal part of Bilbo these days. For his part, Bilbo seems to become aware of just how much he is giving away. He closes his eyes briefly, looking tired and torn, before letting out a small breath and turning back to the neat stacks of food on the table still waiting to be packed.

"And I am definitely taking a nice, warm bath before we leave", he says, tone aiming for light and missing by a mile. "Eru knows when I'll be able to do that again."

In order to stop himself from simply crossing the room and reaching for Bilbo, Thorin clears his throat and pushes away from the sink. "I'll go see about those blankets then."

"Good."

Making his way through the halls, Thorin takes in the rooms. There is such warmth here, such feeling of home. He wonders not if Bilbo will miss it, but how much. Wonders if Bilbo will resent him for dragging him away from home once again. But try as he does, Thorin can't feel guilty about that. Not when it means saving Bilbo's life. He's been stumbling through the job so far, Thorin knows. As much is obvious, what from his poor timing and runaway tongue, and what from Bilbo acting skittish and on edge. Thorin doesn't know if that's all due to the words said earlier, but a part of him wonders just how much more difficult he has made things. The horrible thing is, he doesn't really have it in his heart to regret it. How does one regret the simplest of truths? Still, he steels himself for keeping that particular flood at bay for the time being and give Bilbo time.

He finds the blankets in a large, ornate chest at the foot of the bed in one of the guest rooms, just as Bilbo said. There's a fine layer of dust on everything in the room, speaking of lack of use, and Thorin wonders just how alone Bilbo's been in the past months. The thought of Bilbo alone among all these empty rooms makes Thorin's chest ache. Was it on purpose, a self-imposed solitude? Or have all those jokes Bilbo made about his reputation being ruined forever by their first journey actually held some truth? There's still so much left for them to talk about, Thorin realises. So much more than just heartbreak and ghosts and ashes. There's a span of half a year of lives lived that neither of them knows about when it comes to each other. Well, the road to Erebor is a long one. Thorin only hopes silence won't stretch even longer.

He brushes the dust off the chest as he picks up the blankets and vows there and then that one day he will make sure Bilbo sees his home again. The blankets soft and slightly stiff under his hands, smelling strongly of lavender, Thorin closes the door to the room and makes his way back.

"Found them", he says as he returns to the kitchen. He finds Bilbo done with packing and holding a frayed piece of parchment.

"They let me keep it", Bilbo says, looking at the map to Erebor. He looks troubled, but then again, he has been looking so for most of the evening. "I think they meant it as an invitation back. But truth be told, I've hidden it away as soon as I returned. I couldn't look at it. I was so afraid I'd run right back, but you still wouldn't be there and I couldn't bear it."

Thorin is stunned speechless. Bilbo looks up.

"I never thought I'd use it again", he continues. "Though, I doubt we'll be sneaking in through the secret door, which isn't even that secret these days, I'll have you know. So, I guess we won't be needing the map. Unless you've forgotten the way."

"I haven't." Thorin's voice is rough. "I still know it."

"Good", Bilbo nods, pensive. "It would hardly do for us to get lost and wander around. I think there's been enough of that for a while."

He moves away from the table and crosses the kitchen until he's standing in front of Thorin. "Don't you?"

"Yes." Thorin's heart is in his throat. Bilbo reaches out, and for a breathless moment Thorin thinks he's about to take Thorin's hand, but then he notices that Bilbo is holding out the map, rolled into a neat scroll.

"I think you should take this. It was yours to begin with", Bilbo says.

"It was a gift. It's yours now", Thorin replies. As he does, he reaches out to close his hand around the map, intending to push it back into Bilbo's hold. His fingers brush Bilbo's where they meet over dry parchment and ages old ink. It's such a small touch, but it burns like fire on frost-bitten skin, sudden and completely not enough at the same time. Bilbo's gaze drops to where their hands are touching, eyes softening to something knowing, a bit scared and slightly sad, and entirely Bilbo-like.

"Well, I won't be needing it, so think of it as a gift as well" he says, swiping a gentle thumb over the knuckles of Thorin's hand. "Or a message, better yet."

"What sort of message?" Thorin is pretty certain he's having trouble remembering the basics of breathing. It hardly matters. He'd hold his breath forever if it means keeping the moment still, Bilbo's hand against his, and that soft look in Bilbo's eyes which now travel back to meet Thorin's.

"That I trust you will make sure I do not lose my way."

Thorin can't look away, even though it might prove easier to look anywhere else. He's coming undone in some invisible way, he's certain. A hidden stich unravels, like a wing unfurling, posing for flight, or maybe a branch breaking, stealing away footing and balance. Either way, it feels like a free fall.

Before Thorin can do anything rash, like another impromptu love declaration, Bilbo withdraws his hand, leaving Thorin's skin feeling cold.

"I think I am going to take that bath now", Bilbo says. "I really need to get out of these clothes."

"Of course", Thorin replies, stepping out of the way and trying very hard not to dwell on the images of Bilbo's clothes falling away.

"You should get some rest before we leave. I left some food unpacked if you are hungry."

"Thank you."

Bilbo brushes past him. He's half way down the hall when he turns back around.

"Thorin…"

"Yes?"

Bilbo fidgets, looking like he's debating something with himself, and Thorin waits patiently for him to be done. Indecision and tense silences seem to be the theme of the evening. In the end, Bilbo just shakes his head, a sharp, small movement meant more for himself than Thorin, and says:

"I've put some clean sheets and quilts in the third-door-to-the-left guestroom. Please don't spend another night on the floor, it's hardly comfortable, and completely unnecessary seeing as there's a perfectly good bed you could be sleeping in. I would abhor the Sackvill-Bagginses to find out my guests are sleeping on the floor. Lobelia would never let me hear to end of it."

Tamping down the tide of disappointment that rises in him, Thorin offers a small smile.

"Of course."

"Well. Good night then."

"Good night, Bilbo."

Bilbo leaves and Thorin counts his way down the door-filled hall until he finds the right room, near the stairs to the cellars where he found Bilbo earlier that evening. The bed creaks under him as he takes Bilbo's advice and decides to catch a few hours of rest before they leave. The troubles of the night weigh down Thorin's thoughts, but soon enough sleep comes like a heavy hush, and Thorin gives into it, one hand clutched in the quilt that smells like comforts of Bilbo's home, the key still hung around his neck heavy and skin-warm. The last thing he hears is Bilbo moving around the house, the soft, approaching patter of feet lulling Thorin to sleep.

There's dew still clinging to the grass in places that the sun hasn't yet touched and the air smells of sleeping forests and far-away snow. The road to Bree is empty, the dirt beaten into a worn path almost mute with only two sets of feet beating softly against it. Bilbo's bare feet make almost no sound, while the thudding of Thorin's heavy boots gets swallowed up by the earth. Their warm breaths cloud in the morning chill as they quietly make their way out of Hobbiton.

"This is the second time I've left without a word", Bilbo says, glancing back the way they came, at the still-sleeping town hidden in rolling green hills peppered with balding trees and dying crops. "Thank Eru for Hamfast."

They woke up before the break of day, intending to get a head start and slip away before anyone could ask any questions, however benevolent. Since they've gone through all the preparations the evening before, with Bilbo packing the food and Thorin canvassing the rooms for any other useful trinkets, there wasn't much to be done than get dressed, eat some breakfast and be on their way. They moved silently around each other, perhaps not comfortably, but certainly with more unwitting ease than any two creatures should be capable off after being in each other's company again for merely a couple of days.

With a letter for Bilbo's gardener stuck in the door and travel sacks flung over their shoulders, Bilbo and Thorin left Bag End before the first flowers in Bilbo's garden decided to yawn prettily at the world.

"Will you miss it?", Thorin asks. "The Shire?"

"Yes", Bilbo answers simply. "I'll always miss it."

"You can come back. As soon as it's safe again, you can..."

"Thorin." And really, it's all it takes these days to quiet Thorin – the sound of his name in Bilbo's voice. Bilbo's face is full of a soft feeling, much like sadness, but maybe less daunting. Homesickness, perhaps, pre-emptive and instinctual. "There will always be something in life that I'll miss. But it is on me to decide which things I can do without, and which I cannot. I love the Shire. It's home. It's the first home I've known. But I've had the Shire for fifty years. I will manage without it for a while. Besides, homes can be rebuilt."

There's heaviness in the almost-light words, one of experience and unforgiving circumstances playing teachers to the unprepared, and Thorin wants to say something spectacularly stupid, something along the lines of 'I'll make sure you never miss anything ever again, if only I can find a way', but he stops himself. He knows empty words when he hears them, even if the sentiment behind them is true.

"That's a brave thing to do", he says instead. As if he doesn't know it, first-hand. As if Bilbo doesn't know it, too. But it's the truth. There's bravery in leaving. In letting go. In hoping. In believing that there will be days to come and homes to build. These days, Thorin thinks that the bravest things he's ever done never once called for a sword and that the worst enemies he's ever fought never had scales to host their fire.

Bilbo shrugs, doesn't meet Thorin's eyes.

"Yes, well...", he says, one hand fiddling around his pocket – a nervous habit Thorin's noticed. "Hopefully, there won't be any dragons this time."

It sounds like a joke, but Bilbo's eyes are distant, thoughtful, his voice flat, so Thorin doesn't laugh.

"I should like to think we are quite done with dragons for a while", he says gently, and Bilbo finally looks away from the scenery and at Thorin. Thorin allows himself a small smile, and after a moment Bilbo smiles back – a small, frayed thing of an expression, but there nonetheless. Thorin wants to grab the wind by its wings and fly.

"Yes", Bilbo says, flinching his hand away from his pocket and wiping it down the leg of his trousers, like it's sweaty. "Yes, I should like to think so, too."